It was only a day since he had been purchased by the lanista, and already he was standing in line with nine others. After his little ordeal, he had been taken away by horse drawn cart to a large, open building which his purchaser had called a 'Ludus'. Scarcely minutes after entering, Eltharion was manhandled by an orc onto a scale where he was stripped almost naked, weighed and measured, the recordings being written down by the same man who had bought him, his aquiline sneer in stark contrast to his rotund belly. With little time for a break, he was re-clothed in slightly less soiled rags and led to what seemed to be some sort of paddock which still had fresh blood staining the sand. Stepping in, he was handed a long wooden spear and told to defend himself. 'From what' had scarcely left his lips before the orc brought out a cage and threw it onto the sand. From within its confines, a scavvy, a large, angry rodent, burst out and immediately began its assault.

Having had very little sustenance over the past few days, Eltharion had barely bested the beast, knocking it unconscious with a well aimed thrust, but it seemed enough to interest the lanista as he wrote down more observations. Having managed to attain a small break, Eltharion looked around and saw a multitude of people locked in combat with wooden weapons, each seeking to outmanoeuvre or overpower their opponent, though more than a few of them seemed to contain people in a similar situation to him as they struggled with various beasts. After the gruelling fight, he was changed into a set of even less filthy rags and re incarcerated in a small cell block, his only sustenance being a thick gruel and a battered mug of water which he partook of greedily. It had been a long time since his last proper meal and the gruel, though tasteless, served to satiate some of his hunger.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At dawn of the next day, Eltharion had been unceremoniously dragged out of his bale of hay and forced into the dim morning light to stand between two blurry figures. With his days in the Forest Thorns having desensitised him to such events, the elf managed to awaken himself in a relatively short time, although he could not say the same for others. As he grew more alert, he looked around him. The previously filled paddocks were empty, wooden weapons discarded to the side and an eerie silence had descended, broken only by the occasional chirp of a bird. Their collective breaths misted in the cold crisp air as a faint breeze chilled their skin, with the only thing moving being a sparse tree fighting the wind. Slowly, his attention was drawn to the sound of clapping hooves and the rhythmic tapping of metal wheels. Looking over towards the entrance of the ludus, Eltharion caught sight of another horse drawn wagon pulling in, this time much larger and covered with a thick black cloth. On the side was emblazoned some sort of crest in crude white paint, but some of it had already peeled off. As the cart pulled to a stop, someone stepped out of the back.

With his cruel, hooked nose, dark sunken eyes and rotund figure, it was hard to not guess who it was. With surprising dexterity, the lanista hopped off of the back and removed a short wooden cane from the interior before leaning heavily on it. Upon closer inspection, he seemed to be missing a leg which had been replaced by a thin shaft of wood. Slowly, he started to approach the assembled line and stood at the head. No-one spoke. For the next few seconds, all eyes were trained on him and his own were used to meet the gaze of each individual. Finally, he tapped his cane against the cold flagstones of the ground. "Rejoice, slaves," he boomed, his voice deep and guttural, like two granite boulders being rubbed together, "I have chosen you to represent me in today's gladiatorial games." A collective gasp went through some of the assembled party. He ignored it. "This means that you will be fighting for the entertainment of the people of Lairea," he continued. His voice seemed to bear a slight poison to his words, but it remained only for a second before disappearing. "Some of you will die, and I will have wasted my denars on a lost cause," he said as he started to hobble around, locking eyes with each one of them, "but to those of you who have lived...I have much more in store for you." Stopping at the other end of the line, he turned back around. "You will continue to fight for me," he said as he straightened up. Gritting his teeth, Eltharion glared at him. He was a plaything for him. Obviously, it was not only him who thought it as a Thunderhoof stepped out of line. "And what if I just crush your sickly little bones here, human?" he boomed as he reached out of the man's neck. In a flash, the man's cane flew out and slapped the beastman's hand away before returning and slamming across the thunderhoof's face, leaving a long welt. "I will have you terminated immediately," was the immediate reply as an orc stepped out, a large axe in hand. Dried blood caked its surface as he growled, learning towards the thunderhoof.

Taking a step forwards, Eltharion met the eyes of the human. "And what is to stop us, as a collective group, destroying your...ludus...and escaping?" he asked, the word still unfamiliar in his mouth. The human scoffed. "The urban legionnaires of course," he said, "and my other gladiators." Eltharion's eyes narrowed. "And for what reason would they remain loyal to you?" The human sighed as he hobbled closer, "Because they heard out my proposal in full," he said as he glared up into Eltharion's eyes, "now step back and let me finish, youngling." Gritting his teeth, the elf stepped back into line, even as the Thunderhoof was dragged back as well. "As I was saying, you will continue to fight for me," he said as he sat back onto the cart, "until you either die," he said as he held a hand up to stifle any complaints, "or you pay off double what I paid for you." The elf raised his eyebrow. "I am a tough, cruel man, tis true," he continued as he rested his peg leg on his good thigh, "but I am a fair man nontheless. If you can pay your price back twofold, I will release you to your own will and allow you passage out of the city." With a lopsided smile, he took out a pipe and started to prepare it. "Is it a deal?"

Sidling over, he lit his pipe. "Well?" he prompted as he gestured in with his free hand. Looking around, he saw no-one budge. They looked towards each other, maybe for guidance, or maybe to single out the weak willed? Either way...Eltharion considered his offer, his gaze returning to the cart. Taking a deep breath, he took a single step forward, drawing more than a few eyes. Locking eyes with the grinning Lanista, Eltharion struggled not to bear his teeth. Turning to the other 9 in the line, Eltharion cleared his throat. "Individually, we cannot hope to best the city's guard," he said as he stood at the foot of the cart, "but...perhaps if we unite our power, we may be able to secure our freedom one battle at a time. What's say you all?"

Duvain felt like a piece of meat being thrown from person to person. After being bought like cattle, she was tossed into a carriage and carried off to who knows where. Duvain was more concerned about how her younger sister was holding up, while she was use to being alone for long periods of time, she still didn't know how to hunt. Duvain and her parents spoiled her younger sister. Duvain was afraid of the emotional trauma that her younger sibling would sustain after loosing both her parents and her sister. Duvain could only hope that her friend would take her in.

When they had finally arrived at their destination, Duvain was nearly stripped of all her clothing by and orc. She tried her best to resist, but to no avail. After being fully humiliated by this orc, measurements were taken, and many jeers were made. It was all Duvain could do to restrain her anger and humiliation, after all it would only hurt her in this situation. Ragged clothes were forced onto her in a little more rough fashion. They were better than nothing, but still indecent for her standards. It was then that she was handed a wooden dagger, which couldn't even cut a twig. She simply stared at it as she was informed to defend herself, and shoved into a cage. When she looked up, a large serpent was released into the area. Were these people enjoying this? She couldn't imagine why, though.

The serpent slowly circled her, eyeing it's next prey. Duvain carefully watched it's movements preparing herself for it to strike first. In a flash, the serpent launched itself at her, poison fangs ready to rip her to shreds. However, Duvain launched herself into the air above the serpent's head and attached herself to it's neck. The serpent thrashed around, trying to get the nuisance off, but Duvain clung to dear life. The vicious movements almost made her loose what sustenance she had left in her stomach. She mustered up her strength and feebly positioned herself onto the beast's head. With a last effort she stabbed both it's eyes. The animal flailed even more fiercely, causing Duvain to loose grip and slam into a wall. She laid there for a moment trying to regain her breath and energy. But the snake had the sense of smell to lead it to it's victim. Cornered, Duvain threw her hands into a defensive position. The serpent grabbed Duvain with it's mouth, and tried to swallow her, but Duvain forced the snake's mouth open. Shaking with the strain, Duvain thrust her bodily fluid covered dagger into it's brain through the roof of it's mouth. The snake fell limp, and Duvain's exhausted body fell to the ground, limp yet again.

Duvain was then dragged out, and forced into more decent clothing. Then once again thrown into a dank cell. The guards threw some almost inedible gruel and nasty water into her cell. Reluctantly, Duvain cautiously ate the food. She wasn't sure if it was drugged or poisoned, however, it she didn't eat she'd end up dead anyway. After awhile she realized it wasn't poisoned, but perhaps it was drugged because she slowly started to loose consciousness.

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Soon dawn arrive and Duvain was rudely awakened by her shackles being grabbed, and her body being dragged along the sand covered floor. She was then stood in a line. With the new scratches and scrapes on her body, Duvain was wide awake. It seemed that all living things were either close to the line of prisoners or as far away from this situation as possible. The morning chill sent goosebumps all over Duvain's exposed skin, her breath almost visible in the soft morning light. The clattering of hooves startled Duvain out of her trance, and brought her attention to the horse drawn cart. When it reached a full stop, a lanista hobbled out. A moment of silence passed over the group, as if time stood still. "Rejoice, slaves," he boomed, breaking the silence, "I have chosen you to represent me in today's gladiatorial games." A collective gasp went through some of the assembled party. Duvain, straightened up, her body now stiff from shock. "This means that you will be fighting for the entertainment of the people of Lairea," he continued. "Some of you will die, and I will have wasted my denars on a lost cause," he said as he started to limp around, locking eyes with each one of them, "but to those of you who have lived...I have much more in store for you." Stopping at the other end of the line, he turned back around. "You will continue to fight for me," he said as he straightened up. A Thunderhoof stepped out of the established line. "And what if I just crush your sickly little bones here, human?" he boomed as he reached out of the man's neck. In a flash, the man's cane flew out and slapped the beastman's hand away before returning and slamming across the thunderhoof's face, leaving a long welt. "I will have you terminated immediately," was the immediate reply as an orc stepped out, a large axe in hand. Dried blood caked its surface as he growled, learning towards the Thunderhoof.

An elf from the Forest Thorns then stepped out of line. "And what is to stop us, as a collective group, destroying your...ludus...and escaping?" he asked. Why was everyone threatening him? He held the key to all their chains, the information to get them home, and the power to kill them. The human scoffed. "The urban legionnaires of course," he said, "and my other gladiators." The elf's eyes narrowed. "And for what reason would they remain loyal to you?" The human sighed as he hobbled closer, "Because they heard out my proposal in full," he said as he glared up into his opposer's eyes, "now step back and let me finish, youngling." The elf reluctantly stepped back into line, even as the Thunderhoof was dragged back as well. "As I was saying, you will continue to fight for me," he said as he sat back onto the cart, "until you either die," he said as he held a hand up to stifle any complaints, "or you pay off double what I paid for you. I am a tough, cruel man, tis true," he continued as he rested his peg leg on his good thigh, "but I am a fair man nontheless. If you can pay your price back twofold, I will release you to your own will and allow you passage out of the city." With a lopsided smile, he took out a pipe and started to prepare it. "Is it a deal?"

Sidling over, he lit his pipe. "Well?" he prompted as he gestured in with his free hand. Duvain didn't dare make a move, she stared straight ahead, thinking with whatever energy she had from her short nap. The elf from before took a single step forward, drawing more than a few eyes. Turning to the other 9 in the line, he cleared his throat. "Individually, we cannot hope to best the city's guard," he said as he stood at the foot of the cart, "but...perhaps if we unite our power, we may be able to secure our freedom one battle at a time. What's say you all?"

"It may be possible, but I cannot bring myself to be on the run forever. I need to see my sister, but if I run away at such a time I will only bring her into harm's way." Duvain said, focusing her eyes on the commanding elf. "Under no circumstances will I bring my sister harm. Especially since there is another way. For either path we will have to fight to the death. What makes our chances any better fighting city's guard than fighting others who are forced to fight us? If anything it'd be easier to earn twice the money he paid for us." She proposed her argument, while this elf might not like to kneel under other's authority, it's the easiest way to get out of this situation. Duvain could only hope that all she was going to do was fight for this man.

Kamnar walked through what seemed to be an endless tunnel. The walls were built of painted stones, haphazardly stacked, with light escaping from spaces between them. He approached one of the larger spaces, lining up his eye with it; as he peeked through, a white light blinded him, and he was suddenly standing in a barren desert. He looked down at his feet. A black orc’s quickly paling body lied there lifelessly, a puddle of crimson rushing from his gaping mouth. Without warning, three figures emerged on the horizon and sprinted at him, all of them black orcs in tattered clothes. There was no way he could explain the situation to them, and no way to restrain them without bloodshed. He felt something begin to materialize in his hands; he looked down to see his steel claymore, the familiar orichalcum motifs tracing its hilt. He knew it was his only means of defending himself. His blade sliced effortlessly through the mother’s shoulder; she fell down, sinking into the dirt without a trace. The father rushed at him, his eyes pouring red down his cheeks as he Berserked, and Kamnar had to force his claymore past the orc’s fist and into his stomach. He, too, sunk quickly in the ground like a stone in water. Finally, the older brother raced toward him with an iron dagger gripped in his fists; Kamnar tried desperately to push him back with the hilt of his sword, but as the black orc narrowly missed stabbing his throat, he was forced to slice open his chest. His beady pupils bored into him in disbelief as he sank slowly, so slowly, downward…

*****

Kamnar’s eyes opened abruptly. He found himself lying in a scratchy stack of hay. Sitting up, he looked around at his dimly lit cell and realized that he had been dreaming. But his dream was his reality, the nightmare that has haunted him ever since that mission with Durak Bol-gar. At once, a flood of memories from the past twenty-four hours came rushing in his mind.

Kamnar reflected on being forced out of his armor by that lanista’s cronies and into chains and rags, then onto a tiny wooden cart. He remembered trying to explain his innocence to the lanista, to no avail; the guards threatened to cut off his tongue if he didn’t stay quiet. Since the black orc tribe in which he was arrested was so close to the port of Lok’Faire, the trip was short; it had only been a few minutes when Kamnar was again guided from the cart and onto a shabby barge. He was appalled to discover himself surrounded by prisoners, of all different races and ages. A sickly, brightly colored Skytalon approached him, two nubs on his back ‒ which used to be magnificent wings, Kamnar was sure ‒ freshly scarred from being clipped.

“This won’t be a long trip for you,” he said in common speech, coughing and scratching at his rainbow feathers. “The captain said this was our last stop before we arrive at our destination.”

“Where are we going, exactly?” Kamnar asked him, relieved to see someone who wanted neither to kill him nor flee from him.

“Who knows?” he responded casually, sniffling and rubbing at his beak. “I’ve been on this ship for three days. They’ve barely told us anything.” Clearly embarrassed of his condition, he waved with a taloned claw and slumped away to a metal bench, which other passengers quickly vacated.

They sailed in agony on the rough waters for what felt like an eternity, some vomiting in the corners of the rusty barge from seasickness, but they eventually arrived at the Ludus. All of them were guided into a small chamber, where they were each forcibly weighed and measured. They had barely finished this humiliating task when Kamnar was pulled out of line by an orc guard. The guard spat on the ground at his feet.

“<You’re an honorless coward,>” he growled at him in Blackspeech. Evidently, word of Kamnar’s alleged deeds had already spread. “<Unlucky for you, I get to decide your opponent in the trial battle.>”

The orc and two other guards shoved Kamnar into a doorway adjacent to the measuring chamber; it was an open, high-walled dirt pit. One of the guards tossed him a rusty iron longsword and ordered him to defend himself before slamming the door shut. Kamnar caught it and gripped it in both of his fists, preparing himself mentally for whatever was to come. A large metal gate opened slowly on the other side of the pit; he had to squint in its direction, as the room was dimly lit, small torches lining its walls. To his horror, out came an enormous black boar, foam spilling out of its fanged mouth, its eyes a milky white with thick crust lining its lids.

Kamnar barely had time to raise his sword before the boar shot out of its cage, charging blindly in his direction, its nostrils flaring. He flung himself out of its path, swinging his sword at its hindquarters and creating a deep gash. It squealed gruffly, turning itself around, but didn’t appear to know where exactly he was. It seemed only able to react to the sound of his feet; Kamnar stood stock still, watching it frantically sniff the air. He began to slowly tiptoe around the beast, a bead of sweat forming on his brow. The boar was circling itself in a rage, clouds of dust rising from its hooves. And, in a flash, Kamnar raised his sword and brought it down onto the boar’s head, stabbing straight through its muzzle and pinning it to the ground. The beast howled and squeaked desperately, blood squirting from its nostrils and mouth, blind eyes bulging, until it finally fell silent.

Exhausted, panting, Kamnar stood over the dead boar and briefly saw in it the corpse of the black orc peasant. He was then relieved of his sword, grabbed by the shoulders, and again led in chains into a murky cell, where he was given a bowl of gruel and a mug of dirty water. He ate and drank breathlessly before passing out into an uneasy slumber.

*****

Kamnar was abruptly pulled from his memories by the clang of his cage door being unlocked and opened. Dragged into the light of morning, he squinted around, the salty wind embracing him. He was used to the cold, being from the mountainous Hel-brok'thar, so the chills crawling over his body were for entirely different reasons. He found himself placed amongst a line of other Arena prisoners, diverse as they were but all dressed in the same rags as he was. He received a few nervous glances, one of which was from the same multicolored Skytalon who welcomed him aboard the barge. The beastman’s cough seemed to have gotten worse; the human prisoner next to him leaned away in disgust.

The sound of thunderous hooves and squeaky wheels alerted Kamnar and the other slaves to the arrival of a fancily-decorated wooden carriage; armed guards stepped out of the back, followed by a sleazy, peg-legged human dressed in aristocratic clothing. The human announced himself as a lanista, informing them of their destiny to fight in the Arena for the enjoyment of onlookers and gamblers. Kamnar’s eyes widened with horror. Working in fields or mines would have been one thing, but the Arena? A feeling of dread rose in his stomach. Would he again have to kill innocents to save his own life? As a wave of shock spread along the line of slaves, the lanista continued to explain his motives, pacing to and fro in front of them. Despite interruptions from an aggressive Thunderhoof and a platinum-haired elf, he eventually finished with the offering of a bargain: win double the denari he paid for them and he will let them walk as free men.

The blond elf who previously confronted the lanista stepped forward and suggested that they all team up to win their freedom. Another elf, this one female, spoke up in favor of the lanista’s bargain, saying that it would be easier to win individual Arena battles than to fight the city guards.

Kamnar deliberated each argument carefully, weighing his options. On one hand, he loathed to kill other people in the Arena, people who are forced to battle him and are probably as guiltless as he is; the black orc family he murdered still casted a long, heavy shadow upon him. On the other hand, he doubted the effectiveness of battling royal authority, as even if they managed to escape, Kamnar would still have to live as a wanted man; but if he won enough Arena battles, he would be cleared of the charges against him and be free to bring Durak to justice.

After substantial consideration, Kamnar made his decision. Stepping out of the line of future fighters, he spoke in a deep, yet firm tone.

“This one is right,” he said, motioning to the female Canopy Strider. “Even if we fought as a unit, we wouldn’t stand a chance against the royal guards. We’re more likely to survive fighting each other in the Arena than fighting trained soldiers outside of it. Furthermore, we’ll be legally free after we pay off our prices. I’m taking the lanista’s offer.”

The man with the wooden leg looked from Garagogarag to the cart, then back again. He looked at the cart once more as if working out how long it would take before the weight of the beastman would bring about its assured destruction. If he could fit on there at all. Even if there weren't already more than enough creatures crammed on there. The wooden-legged man turned to the driver and consulted with him. Garagogarag imagined him saying something along the lines of, 'how in the world are we going to get this buffoon on to the cart?!'
The driver merely shrugged. Giving an exasperated sigh, the Tree-Leg - for that was what he was - gave a swift order to the driver who quickly jumped down and ran off. The Tree-Leg turned to the beastman and appraised him.

Here he was, this astoundingly large wall of muscle, standing before him completely unchained, and yet he made no attempt at escape, nor did he attempt to maul, kill or otherwise place in his mouth or rend with his claws anybody in sight. It was either a very stupid creature or a very intelligent one. And something in its eyes told him it was certainly not the former.

Then there was the issue of the damned child on his shoulder! He wouldn't come down at all! When they spoke to him he ignored them and when they attempted to get him down the beastman would growl threateningly, forcing them to leave him be. They certainly could not have this. Could the beast be reasoned with, perhaps? He would have to try-

Before he could attempt to communicate with the thing, the driver had returned, a long chain in hand. The Tree-Leg gave a quick order, at which the driver visibly paled. A quick shout and a strike on the buttock with the cane ensured the driver got on with it. Very carefully, he approached the beastman and placed the chain around his waist - he had to circle him completely to avoid getting too close and personal, but otherwise, the beastman remained still and looked on curiously - or it appeared curious. Before long, they had tied the chain to the end of the cart and were ready to set off. If the beastman could not get on the cart, then he would simply have to run along behind it - or get dragged, if he so preferred.

Without further ado, the driver jumped into his seat and the Tree-Leg followed him on, with far less agility. He whipped the reins and the four horses set off. The cart began to move, the chain became taut and Garagogarag stared on in fascination as the cart came to a sudden halt and began to creak from the two opposing forces acting on it. On one side, the horses were trying to move forward, while on the other, a fascinated beastman stood staring, barely noticing the pull of the chain.

'Get a move on you buffoon!' the voice of the Tree-Leg came and Garagogarag blinked a few times, flexed his leg muscles and began jogging forward. With the force preventing it from moving removed all of a sudden, the cart jerked forward and nearly sent driver, Tree-Leg and everyone else flying. They managed to stay on, but gave the beastman many a poisonous glare. If looks could kill, he would have died many times over during that jog.

'You know, we coulda got him to pull the cart and carry the horses,' the driver said to the Tree-Leg.
'We could have had the cart ride him,' the Tree-Leg muttered unenthusiastically.

They soon arrived at a rather staggering building. Garagogarag could neither see where it began at one end nor where it ended at the other. Everyone on the cart was forced in and Garagogarag, after having the chain removed, had the good sense to follow without pause. The glare of the Tree-Leg alone assured him that now was no time to be testing the little plump man.

Inside, he was set upon by an orc who tried to manhandle him roughly before realising it wasn't getting him anywhere. He looked up at the huge beastman quizzically, wondering how best to deal with this little problem. There was only so much a seven foot tall orc could do against an eleven foot monstrosity such as this. The Tree-Leg soon arrived and pointed Garagogarag to a strange thing.
'Get on the scale! Stop buffooning about!' he certainly seemed to enjoy calling him a buffoon, Garagogarag could not help think of the monkeys which inhabited his forest home. He doubted he looked much like them, perhaps the Tree-Leg thought he was a monkey of some kind? That was certainly amusing!

Doing as he was told, the beastman stepped on the scale and measurements were taken.
'Uh...the scale doesn't go high enough. I think he might have broken it.' there was a moment of silence as the Tree-Leg registered the Orc's words, looking above him as if asking whatever gods may be why they had blessed him with such imbecilic creatures - it just had to be too heavy didn't it! He quickly scribbled an estimate before commanding the beastman to move towards a series of metal bars which slowly lifted to reveal a rather large pit beyond. Without question, Garagogarag moved out and the bars came crashing down behind him.
'We didn't give him a weapon!' the Orc's voice came.
'Does that thing looks like it needs one?' the Tree-Leg hissed in annoyance, and a yelp from the Orc pointed towards another victim of a caned buttock.

The other end of the pit also had bars, which slowly lifted. From beyond the darkness, Garagogarag could feel a most ominous thing approaching. Even where he stood, he could hear its breathing and its heartbeats, he could sense its blood lust. The darkness gave way, slowly, as if attempting to cling on to the creature making its way into the pit.

It was black as night, a great amount of grey fur cascaded from its head. It was, as far as Garagogarag could see, a very strange lion of some kind. It raised its tale and he saw that it ended with a rather vicious spike, and something told him he did not want that touching him at all. With great care, he removed the child from his shoulder and placed him by the bars. The child sat down, completely unperturbed, and watched.

The beastman turned to this strange creature as the bars closed behind him. They immediately began circling each other, slowly at first, but faster and faster, closer and closer. Both predators had eyes only for one another. The lion's tail was raised high, poised to strike. Garagogarag had his arms raised, his vicious claws prepared to tear flesh, his razor teeth only too willing to sink into this fine meal - he had not eaten in far too long, and raw be it or cooked, meat was meat.

The lion's tail struck forth, aiming straight for the beastman's lowered head. With alarming speed, Garagogarag shifted his head just to the side, and the spike passed him by. Without hesitation, he grabbed the tail with his left hand and wrenched upwards. Had he used less force, he would have achieved the desired effect of lifting his opponent from its tail and having it dangle there helplessly as he contemplated how best to deal with it. As it were, he used far too much speed and strength, and the lion was a bit too heavy to be lifted from the tail.

What followed was a gruesome sight. The creature's tail, along with its spine and much of its attached innards, were wrenched right out. It gave a horrified squeal, attempting to escape the deadly grasp of the beastman. And it did, only to stagger and fall, spineless, lifeless and dead. Bloodied and rather disappointed, Garagogarag approached the creature and explored the gaping hole of its back. He managed to get a good two mouthfuls before the voice of the Tree-Leg reached him, commanding him to stop. Garagogarag could smell his fear, but he obeyed nonetheless.

He returned to the child, who swiftly climbed up a bloodied arm and on to his sanguinary companion's shoulder. The beastman was led away and ushered into a small, cramped cell. Its door, unlike others, was of metal. Though that would not be of much use, Garagogarag could sense strange energies emanating from it. This was a cell which was far more powerfully guarded than a simple one of metal and stone. They placed a plate of brew and some water inside. Not feeling very hungry, Garagogarag allowed his little companion to have it. The child ate without fuss or complaint, and once he drank his share, he gave the water bowl to the beastman who drank deeply.

Satisfied, Garagogarag curled up, and his little companion curled up beside him, and both slept. One of the beastman's eyes remained open.

The next day was very active. Garagogarag was up early, as always, pacing his cell. He wanted to walk, run, hunt. This was a very cramped space. Soon enough, the door opened and he was led away, child on shoulder. He was left by the Orc near a group of slaves, some whom he had seen the day before, others new to him. He ignored them all and stood quietly to the side.

Before long, the Tree-Leg arrived and began speaking and gesticulating wildly. He was indeed a most amusing little man. Even if he thought that Garagogarag, the mighty Tree-Claw, was a 'buffoon-monkey'. Once he was done, and Garagogarag had the impression that he was making an offer, the other slaves began muttering amongst themselves. Three in particular were the most outspoken. A blonde creature which looked much like the Tree-Leg yet moved with a very different air, the second was a creature very similar to the first, and the last was an Orc. He had come across Orcs many times during his hunts. The tribal hunting lands, it seemed, fell within their claimed territory. Not that it ever mattered, they tended to avoid him, unless in great numbers, and when they were in great numbers, he was more than capable of evading them and withdrawing into the tribal heartlands.

Garagogarag had no plans to speak at all. The Life had led him here, and the Life would do with him as it pleased. The child on his shoulder, however, had different ideas. He spoke, and despite his small size and innocent appearance - why, he could not be older than five or six in human years - his voice was full of maturity, ever so different from the first time Garagogarag had spoken to him.

'Do not belittle the pit. You will die as surely in there as you will fighting the city guard. It is simply a matter of choosing a quick death, fighting for your life and freedom, or a slow, humiliating one as entertainment for the blood-deprived masses. It is a choice between living and dying as slaves, or living and dying free, to the last. Either way, you are all dead.'

Garagogarag stared at his companion, wondering how a thing so small could come out with such a speech. He gave a low grunt, clearly disapproving of the words spoken.

'We Fight. We Will. We Live. In the Pit. On the Field. It Differs Little. But Here, If We Survive, We Can Grow. Stronger We Can Become. We Can Thrive.'

Koganusan stared across the table, into the Lanista's eyes. She was aware that this was a fight she'd lose. Even her calculated mercantile stare was having little effect against the hook-nosed human. Humans were tough nuts to crack, even to dwarves. Elves were quick and dextrous, beastmen and orcs were untamed and ferocious, dwarves were resourceful and smart, but nothing beat a human in sheer dogged endurance and persistance. They could run without stopping for days. Anything done by human hands was done efficiently and repetitively, to a degree of skill no other race could hope to manage. The man in front of her, clasping his hands in front of his face and giving her the silent treatment was starting to make her nervous. It didn't help that her stumpy little feet were dangling from the human-sized seat. Nobody could look menacing or formidable with swinging feet. His mouth moved, and it took a long time before she notice he was talking.

"I'm a busy man, so i'd like to make this quick. You say you're looking for a down payment, is this correct?"
"Y-yes sir."
"A lump sum?"
"As i said, sir."
"And in exchange, you'll...? "
"Enter contractual slavery, sir. I do believe that's a custom around these parts?"
"The Nexum contract, certainly. I'm afraid my current rate is some thirty thousand dinars, but you will remain my jurusdiction until you earn me double that. Based on current going rates, especially considering how my business is going, this would keep you with me for some... five years?"
"I don't mind, sir."
"And you're okay with that?"

She nodded. The man uncrossed his legs. A resolute thunk sound as his peg leg hit the stone floor. He pushed himself up from the desk with both palms, and handed her a thick scroll of parchment. She took it, and unrolled it - The professional way, too. She knew her way around the written word. She held the stylus and dipped it in the inkpot in one fluid motion, and signed at the bottom in one fluid motion. A far cry from the Lanista's usual clientèle, who usually signed with an x. He took the stylus from her hand and curled the parchment back into it's tube. He'd file it with the others later. That was it, as much as he was concerned. But he decided to relieve his curiosity.

"Miss Hawlaestic-"
"My mother was Miss Hawlaestic. Please, call me Cog."
"Very well... Cog. I understand you've just came from the mountains, and-"
"Really sir? What gave it away?"
"Your chin. And more accurately, the fact that I can view it. I must say, if it weren't for your statement to my secretarium, i would not have guessed you for a dwarf at all."
If she was hurt by this accusation, she didn't show it. Best not to bite the hand that fed you.
"I understand, sir. I gather that braids are the fashion around these heights. I'm afraid that where I come from, beards are considered something too, mmm, important to leave up to nature. We use wigs. I had to sell mine for safe passage here, as a matter of fact."
"Is that so?"
"Yessir. I'm afraid I had to up sticks rather quickly, erm, due to unusual circumstances."
"You aren't a wanted dwarf, by any chance?"
"Of course not, sir!" She lied. "...but it would be fair to say that i'm not exactly welcome in the old country."
"As I thought. Believe me, you won't be the first nor the last. But i must ask that you keep your personal and professional life separate."
"I don't believe that will be a problem."
"I see. Now, get yourself to the barracks. I assume some of my men will be along to handle... things." He waved a hand, dismissively. "Clothes and beds, training, and so on. Is there anything else?"
"No sir, thank you sir!"

She jumped off the high chair and bowed, graciously, walking backwards. She bumped into the doorframe, bur recovered and slipped out of his slight.

---

The dwarf stood at the back of the line, at one end, blinking the sand out of her eyes. To dwarves, that wasn't a metaphor. She'd slept with her eyes open in the darkness, and every morning when she woke, her thick and bushy eyelashes were coated with the dust and spackle of sand and grit, which took several minutes of high-maintenance eye-digging to remove. She barely caught the exchanges that passed somewhere to the right on her, even though she managed to get the gist of it. Her lord master had come down here, and rattled off a series of demands, nothing she hadn't already heard. After he'd left, people started talking. It was far too early in the morning to be talking. She'd had enough of that last night, with the tall human she'd been fighting with. He thought himself clever by jumping and leaping out of the way of her sword swipes, and she'd brought him down with a tackle and sat on his chest watching his ribcage slowly crack under the strain. It'd been pretty fun, in a turning-tortoises-upside-down-to-see-them-struggle kind of way. She'd taken the time back then to look around at her compatriots. Or at least the ones who weren't bright blue and gasping under her feet.

A few had caught her attention. Chief amongst them was the bear, who had appeared to be halfway through a nice meal of raw Scorplion. An elf in one corner (A round building, but you get the idea) had been knee-deep in python guts, and an Orc at the far end had been trying to shake boarbrains off of a wooden sword. All the blood and guts everyone else was fun trying to spill all over the place, and here she was with a miserable man-animal she wasn't even allowed to kill. She remembered getting a little bit pissed about that.

She fished the last of the silicates out of her sclera, and blinked in the dirty brown light. Some people were talking, now that the master had been and gone. Even in her half-asleep state, she caught a few words. "Secure our freedom." "Unite." and similar. Sounded like socialist rebel talk. She held no truck with them. Don't bite the hand that feeds you. (Translated from the original dwarfish: Don't knock over the mineshaft supports. It sounds a whole lot better in dwarfish.) She kept her mouth shut, contributing nothing to the bunch of dissidents who suddenly came over all nervous to argue against the elf. She took the time to memorize his skin discolouration. Maybe if she reported him to the Lanista, she'd get some sort of reward. On top of the already sizable reward she was getting just for being here, of course.

One by one, the other members of the slave line shuffled past him into the cart. With each one that passed, Eltharion's visage grew more disappointed, until he was simply standing straight, his fist clenched and his teeth gritted. His forest green eyes shone brightly in the dim light of the dawn light but they were downcast. Of course, he had been a bit...foolish with his thoughts. It was simply because he had been captured and thrown into the tumultuous events that were now transpiring. The more he thought about it, the more he realised that he had just wanted something simple to calm himself, like swift, brutal revenge. Of course being an unarmed mob of 10 rushing an entire garrison would be crushed with no effort. Not even one of them would even make it out. He was ashamed, both as an elf and as a commander. But he was too stubborn to admit it.

The first to pipe up was the second elf, who managed to rationalise both her thoughts, and his. Hearing the words come from the mouth of another elf in the same situation truly shamed him. She may not have been part of the military proper, but she had the resolve of one. Of course, he didn't say so, but he did lock eyes with her as she passed. Next was the orc who stepped out of line and affirmed his intentions to fight in the arena. Though he may never had met one, Eltharion could already tell that this one was...different. From the texts and stories, he had thought all orcs to be violent savages, revelling in bloodshed and death. Though he was not sure if those stories were embellished or not, it seemed that this one trumped those stereotypes, voicing his opinions and reasoning. Eltharion let out a small nod with his eyes closed. He spoke fairly and with merit. Once again, he was reminded of how childish he had been. Like a chastised youngling, he took a step back.

The next one surprised him. Although the image of a small child sitting on the shoulder of a gigantic beastman's shoulder was reason for a spectacle enough, the child's next words stunned the elf and a few others besides. "A slightly pessimistic view is that not?" Eltharion said as he took a step forward, his arms folded, "though we may be locked into servitude, I refuse to accept that I will die in the pits." Turning to face some of the other fighters, he grimaced before turning back. "However, it seems that we are unwilling to fight the city garrison either so the arena is our only choice, and I will be damned if I die this far away from my birthplace." Then, to further add to the surprise, the bear creature spoke up, its voice deep and primal, like the creaking of boughs in the wind. Subtly taking a step back to hide his surprise, Eltharion was slightly shocked that such a beast could speak in Common. In his experience, the larger the beast tribe, the more brawn they had over brains, and considering that the elves had the most contact with beastmen out of any other race, it was drawing from a lot of experience. Clearing his throat, the elf assumed a more respectful position. "I care not how strong I get," he said as he looked over and spotted a dwarf in their formation, "only that I am able to return and defend my people." There was some poorly concealed malice in his words, but that was only to be expected considering how he got here.

Turning around, he met the gaze of the Lanista who's face was locked into a lop sided grin as the other side nestled his pipe, the occassional puff of smoke leaking out. He raised his eyebrows knowingly before standing up and moving aside, leaning on the side of the cart. 'Don't look so smug,' Eltharion thought to himself as he took a step towards the back of the cart, ascending the ramp in a series of soft, dull thuds on the aging wood. The interior was dark and musty, lit only by the pair of barred windows on either side which allowed the blue-grey light of the early morning to leak in. Bare apart from the built in wooden benches on either side, the grey-brown wood already had some moss starting to grow. Taking a seat next to a particularly colourful skytalon, Eltharion breathed a sigh into cupped hands, resting his elbows on his knees. At the very least, the cart was roomy. Probably to make room for that giant bear-like beastman outside he thought as he let out a slight groan. With all the adrenaline from earlier burning away he suddenly felt more tired than before he had gone to sleep. As he closed his eyes, he could feel himself drifting off to sleep, and the more he tried to fight it the heavier his eyelids felt.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A particularly chest wracking cough awakened Eltharion from his little nap. Opening his eyes with some effort, he focussed on the skytalon who was doubled over as his mottled feathers ruffeld with the pain. Too tired to really care, he nestled the back of his head further into his furry pillow...wait a minute...Snapping up with a speed that would have put a spike wall trap to shame, his head flicked around and focussed on the hirsute arm of the bear beast tribesman. This elicited a guffaw of laughter from the thunderhoof tribesman who looked at him with cruel red eyes. "Like a child in every way," he said as he leaned back against the rough wood of the cart, his nose ring swinging with the movement. "A veteran grabs sleep where he can so that he may meet the enemy with more vigour," Eltharion replied as he stifled a yawn. Locking eyes with the bull as he sank into a more comfortable position on the seat, he displayed a small smile. "You obviously wouldn't know though, being a nubling," he said, the smirk remaining on his face. "What did you call me!?" the bull roared, rising to the bait as he stood up, his hooves thudding loudly on the wooden flooring. It was then that the cart rolled over a particularly large bump in the road, sending the beast tribesman sprawling as he lost his balance. Reaching down, Eltharion offered a hand to him. "Besides," he said, the smirk being replaced by an attempt at a smile, "I think we will have enough enemies in the arena without making more amongst our own company." Snorting loudly, the thunderhoof slapped his hand away before climbing to his feet and returning to his seat.

The wagon rolled on for a while longer in silence, broken only by the occassional clack and bump as the metal rimmed wheels met a rock on the poorly paved road. Looking to the side, he saw the giant, clawed hand of the bear tribesman once more and a thought occurred to him. It would probably be best to garner as many allies as he could before they were given weapons, wouldn't it? "So...may I ask what brought you all here, Serons?," he asked, using the Elvish word for an auxiliary ally. In their endless war with the Dwarves, elves often employed beastmen and other mercenaries in their ranks in return for certain rights and assistance. As such, they had a specific vocabulary for referring to their allies, whose strengths and cultures they deeply respected, or at least tried to.

Garagogarag watched with interest as everyone filed into the now much larger cart. He glanced at the Treeleg who was busy chewing at some kind of stick. It had a hole at the end he could sea a constant trail of smoke escaped it. It reeked like nothing Garagogarag has ever smelled before, and his sensitive nose was not at all pleased. He gave a disgruntled growl and shook his head, as if trying to dislodge the stench from his nose. Without further comment, he climbed onto the cart and seated himself by the hotheaded elf who had spoken up in favour of fighting a way out of whatever predicament each of them found themselves in.

Garagogarag was not entirely aware of how much a predicament he was in. As far as he was concerned, he was here not against his will, but to the contrary, he was perfectly happy being here. The Life had willed it, and who was he to question the Life? But all these creatures seemed rather displeased about being here. Bar the quiet short one, that is, who for one reason or another, and despite its short stature, had caught Garagogarag's eye the moment he stopped speaking. He had not noticed her before for one reason or another. Something in the way she stood, the way her mouth was set as though she had made her mind up on not saying a word, the way she eyed the others...
She was an interesting one, different from the rest.

He had not wanted to speak, his mastery over this new tongue was far from ideal. The child had spent long speaking to him in it and explaining it on their long journey from the tribal lands to this strange place. He was a quick learner, and his inherent ability to understand others helped, but he could not say that others could understand him as well as he them. He had never considered it, but when he compared the manner in which he spoke, even in the Treemind tongue, it was rather strange and unintelligible unless one could, as other Treeminds could, understand his communication in other ways, such as his tribal markings and the limited awareness of each other's presence and thinking. Perhaps...he should strive towards emulating the manners in which they spoke if he wished for his meaning to be clearer.

He looked towards the child sitting on his shoulder. Was it not a strange bond they shared? This ability to communicate without a single word...
He had never really thought about it...but why was it so? Why could this child read into him and the other way around? And why, in the name of all things living, was it such a cynical and most depressed being! It rolled its eyes at him, as if saying, I am neither of those things. I merely speak truth. That is one of the duties of the intellectual. Garagogarag blinked a few times. The whatnow?

Ignoring him, the child regarded all those present in the cart as it began its slow way to wherever it was they were going. Garagogarag was not yet entirely sure what it was they were expected to do, really. No one had explained it to him and the child, useful as he was, had not bothered to explain anything to him. Not that it mattered, he would do only as the Life commanded, and nothing he found himself doing would be out of step with what the Life wished...surely. Or at least no situation he found himself in would be against the wishes of the Life, for it guided his way. The child gave him a derisive look, its contemptuous, logical voice came to him, The Life? You are still going on about that? You are far too self-assured and content. Even one who does believe in higher beings should allow some space for doubt, no?

Garagogarag cocked his head. Now that was rather interesting. Before he could respond, however, he felt something leaning on his arm...or rather than leaning, completely reclining on it. Careful so as not to move his arm, he looked down to find that, in a strangely innocent manner, the hotheaded elf was asleep, leaning back onto Garagogarag's arm. He looked very much at peace, he even thought that there was a small, content smile hovering around the elf's mouth. His eyes didn't lie, but perhaps he was simply seeing what he wanted to see. Eyes could do that, no? Particularly eyes as good as his own. No, eyes don't do that. Not good eyes at least.

Ignoring the child, Garagogarag watched the elf for a while. This one was interesting too. There was much to be learned from observing all of these interesting new creatures. He had no doubt that slowly, but surely, he would grow in this place. Perhaps it was a strange place to come for growth, indeed, this one seemed uninterested in growing here; it did not mean that it was not a good place to grow however. If the Life had led him here, then it was a good place. And what he saw before him proved, more than anything, that this was a good place. Or at least that there was much goodness to be found. There was no greater goodness than the state of complete innocence of sleep, of complete unity with the Life. In sleep, all creatures revealed their inner goodness. Any who, even in sleep, appeared vile and full of darkness were surely of the most accursed beings in existence.

A coughing Skytalon woke the elf and something of an affray followed. Garagogarag watched with interest as the hotheaded elf slowly coaxed the Thunderhoof into a state of anger. He worked his prey with expert ease and once he had him at his feet, he offered a hand of friendship. Naturally, the proud - and somewhat dimwitted - Thunderhoof could not find further justification to be aggressive, but neither could he simply accept a hand of friendship from one who had humiliated him so. It was the fate of the Thunderhoofs, dear as they were to Garagogarag's heart, to be ever warlike and aggressive and lacking in refinement and the ability to think more broadly, beyond who they will pummel next.

Sighing slightly, Garagogarag turned his head away from the others and sat in silence for a while. The child sat quietly on his shoulder, its thoughts mixing with his own at points and little back and forth ensuing. At least having this constant source of debate ensured his thinking never descended to the level of a Thunderhoof. Don't kid yourself, there really is no difference between you and that Bull. If anything, he's much better than you, at the very least he doesn't have this superiority complex you seem to have.
Well, that is rather interesting.
Isn't everything with you? The child rolled its eyes, an exasperated huff leaving its tiny mouth.

'So...may I ask what brought you all here, Serons?' Garagogarag turned his head towards the voice. The hotheaded one had spoken, and he appeared to be addressing him. Garagogarag wondered what this 'Serons' was. He had never heard it. Perhaps it was a name? Maybe the elf was mistaking him for somebody else. After all, if the Treeleg had mistaken him for a monkey, it was entirely possible that this creature had mistaken him for someone it knew. Perhaps even one of its kind. Yes, he was certain that, if he tried, he could pass probably pass off for one of the creature's kind, at least, if others of its kind also had such bad eyesight.
A Seron is a word elves use to refer to their mercenary 'allies'. He definitely is not confusing you for one of his kind, what do you take him for? Some idiot? He's an elf!

Garagogarag looked at the child quizzically for a while.
Well, it is entirely possible that it was confused. How am I to know that it is so intelligent? I have never heard of this word Seron before. We Treeminds do not interact with these elf creatures. It was clear, however, that other beastmen did interact with these elves, and even fought alongside them.
Looking down at the elf, Garagogarag nudged the child to speak on his behalf, he did not think his speech yet ready. Without much emotion, the child spoke.

'This one is of the Treemind tribe in the north. He thinks that a higher power called 'the Life' brought him here. In reality, he was caught by a mage and a group of hired mercenaries who then brought him here and sold him. I assure you, I have absolutely no interest in you whatsoever, but he is asking you how you got here. We might just have a romance on our hands.'
A romance?
Or the way this is going, it looks more like a comedy. If the child could look any the more unimpressed, he would have been some ancient carving of a disdainful god.

Kamnar listened to the bizarre duo, the beastman and the human child, speak in Common with mysterious elegance, and he got the impression that they shared a unique bond despite holding different views. He was a bit startled by the bear-man’s appearance, as he had not, in all his travels throughout Arkreides, seen such a being; though as he thought about it, he did remember hearing stories of unusually peaceful, bear-like creatures from the older orc warriors in his clan.

As they finished their brief speeches, all of the slaves began to board the lanista’s embellished wooden carriage one by one. Kamnar followed them, striding past the resentful male elf and ascending the ramp of the cart. The lanista, smirking, went to the front and seated himself by the driver. He and his purchased slaves were finally prepared to make their destined journey to the Arena.

*****

At first, it was a fairly quiet cart ride, despite its unusual array of passengers, the only noises being the squeaking wooden wheels and the benches’ chains clanging from movement. The rising sun shone intermittently through the barred windows, one particularly bright ray hitting Kamnar directly in his eyes. No matter; he didn’t think he’d be able to get any rest regardless. No sooner than that thought had passed through his mind did he notice the same platinum-haired elf as before nodding off onto the bear-man’s furred arm. He watched, amused, as the beast allowed him to nap in silence. Kamnar then saw the sickly Skytalon seated nearby, the one that had greeted him aboard the Ludus-bound barge; he gave him a soft smile, which the bird-man returned enthusiastically. Suddenly, he lurched forward with a nasty cough, which woke the drowsy Elven slave with a start. Kamnar observed the argument between the Thunderhoof and the elf with some interest; what caught his eye specifically was the way the Forest Thorn instigated the bull beastman with ease. Though the beastman seemed the short-tempered type in the first place, it seemed that the elf had some practice in manipulation, and he promised himself to be wary of him in the future.

The elven male, looking around at all of them with a genial smile, proceeded to ask aloud how they had come to be here. He used an elven word, Serons – though Kamnar did not remember its exact meaning, he recognized it as a respectful one from his past dealings with elves. Despite the nagging distrust in the back of his mind, he thought it would be best to get to know these people and perhaps make allies; after all, it would be much easier to lay low in the Arena if they all had some mutual understanding. He also appreciated the fact that the elf was the one to bring up the subject; if it had been himself, there might have been much fewer fighters interested in sharing their stories with an orc. Kamnar leaned forward and indulged his tale to those who listened, his fingers interlocking to prevent his hands from shaking with anger; this was the first time he ever said these truths out loud, and it was like reliving his hell all over again.

“I was a high-ranking paladin of Hel-brok’thar, serving my god, Pra’Flakor. On a mission to convert a small black orc tribe, I was accused of the murder of a local tribesman by my own fellow knight. The tribesman’s family attacked me and I –“ Kamnar paused furiously, biting his lip – “I killed them all to defend myself. As it turned out, that paladin had hired a lanista to frame me, and I was arrested and sold into slavery. He got to keep his knighthood while I ended up… here.”

A bitter smile worked its way onto his face as he spoke. Four innocent orcs dead, and one guilty orc still alive and serving in his esteemed position… Surely Pra’Flakor did not will this? And if he had, for what purpose? These questions ran through his mind for the thousandth time since his capture; Kamnar was forced to consider the possibility that there was no god to protect him from what awaited him in the Arena…

Duvain was grateful that her words seemed to have an affect on the group of slaves. Words from the other's mouths only seemed to agree, or stay neutral. Once everyone came to a silent consensus, some with varying degrees of reluctance, they boarded the spacious carriage.

Duvain sat curled up in a corner surrounded by various large figures. Unlike many others, Duvain was not taught much about other races. Her parents had wished to prevent hatred for the other races to grow inside of her. While much activity went on around her, she stayed silent. After all she was more focused on her sister. Hopefully, the friend that Duvain had left her with, had taken her in. However, she didn't want her sister to go through the pain of losing another family member. Therefore Duvain made a promise to her self, she'd get back to her sister no matter what it took.

As she thought about these matters, the bright rays of sun began to stream through the holes in the carriage. Duvain sighed, if only she could fall asleep like some of the others and forget about what lies ahead of her. But, alas, it was never possible for Duvain to sleep in a moving vehicle. So she stared off in to space, and started to daydream.

Duvain could feel every bump, every sway, and every dip in the path they were riding on. Anything to keep her mind off the pain that was ahead of her. But for some reason her mind kept coming back to the arena she was destined to fight in. Questions flooded her mind. Would she have to kill? Probably. Would her sister be afraid of her if she came back home a killer? Most likely. Negative thoughts kept weighing Duvain's usually light body, down. At this rate, Duvain would need a miracle in order to bring her through. So, Duvain physically shook the thoughts from her head. This earned her quite a few weird looks, but she ignored them. Right now she needed a battle plan. She needed to train and she needed allies. But then a question struck her. Wouldn't allies get in the way? Duvain carefully considered her options. On one hand they could definitely be of assistance when she needed them, but she wasn't willing to give up as much as she was asking. Did that make her bad? She came to the conclusion that if anyone came to her asking for an ally, that she'd comply, but she would discuss the conditions of their alliance in great detail.

-Koganusan got on the carriage with little fuss, and sat down on a bench. Wow, a bench. Dwarf caravels hadn't even gotten that kind of technology yet, preferring to let their occupants sit or stand on the chests carrying their precious items. Her legs swayed with the rocking as the thing ran over stones and pebbles, and the light made interesting shapes in the dust. Mainly straight lines. Seems like light wasn't all that good with the whole curves business. Nobody else seemed to want to talk, except for a few muttered conversations she could barely even get into. Some were even settling down for a discreet nap. Shameful, that. They'd just woken up. There was no reason to do it, it'd just mess up with your sleep cycle. Koganusan stayed wide awake, tapping idly at the benchwood between her legs, and humming a tuneless tune to the rhythm. Nobody joined in.

It's hard to write about nothing happening, but even harder to live through it. When she looked back at this time, all she could remember was occasional snoring and creaking as people shifted position inside the wagon, or a wheel bumped up against a stone in the road. She carved a little design into the chair with a nail, and that took away some time, but just a fraction of the whole load of nothing. She began to feel like she was being tested for something. Her initiative, maybe? She took a look around, and tried to remember faces. There were a few she'd seen yesterday fighting the interesting bunch of animals. The socialist elf, and the bear, who seemed to be talking to each other. Ergi Hvatha. (There's no point in translating that, because then it would be censored,) Ah well. Let the boulders fall where they will. No point in trying to hear what they were speaking about, since it was probably just seditious nonsense. She let the speech mix with the sounds of creaking and the trotting of the horse, until it became part of the background noise, and rapped her knuckles against the wood again. Thunk thunk thunka-da-thunk a-thunk thunk thunk.

The first to share his stories was the orc who wove his tale of betrayal with trembling shoulder. Likely not because of sadness, but because of rage. Despite his little knowledge about orcs, he did know that the majority of them held honour in high regard. The few orcish mercenaries he had come across had made that clear. As such, it came as no surprise why the orc in front of him was literally shaking with bottled in rage. Resting his elbows on his knees, Eltharion cupped his fist in front of his mouth and stared at Kamnar. "I assume there was no evidence of the betrayal?" he asked, before shaking his head with a similarly bitter smile, "Of course not, otherwise you would not be here." Another moment of silence passed before he spoke up again. "I assume if we get out, nay, once we get out of here, that you will seek out the perpatrator?" the smile widened, "until then though, channel your anger into the arena. From what I have seen already, you orcs are a force worthy of a Forest Thorn."

The next to speak up was the bear tribesman, or rather, the child sitting on its shoulder. Its voice was high and nasal, but its tone was dripping with sarcasm and venom. "I could ask the very same thing," he replied as he looked up, meeting the child's eyes, "I have heard the...Treemind's...story, but I have yet to hear yours. I am unaware of how human children are raised, but you seem oddly cynical and eloquent for someone of your age." In return, he received a look that would have punched holes through a brick wall and positively screamed of 'mind your own business'. He met it with cold, hard emeralds of green. "Not to mention, I would like to know why you two are always situated together."

"Perhaps the treemind is this child's adoptive father," jested the clicky voice of the Skytalon next to him, the consonants of his words harsh and cutting despite his gentle tone, "would not be the strangest thing I have heard on the winds." This was followed by another feather ruffling cough and rasp. "Are you quite alright?" Eltharion asked as he slightly recoiled away from the birdman. He waved a cruelly taloned hard in response as he doubled over. "I'm *cough* I'm fine," he managed between gasps for breath, "it is a new sickness, but not *cough* not one that can be given to others." As his coughing fit sunsided, Eltharion sighed internally in relief. At least he wouldn't have to worry about sickness while being here as well. "What of your story, bird man?" Eltharion said as he saw the vestigial nubs of his wings, as well as a freshly sutured wound on his chest. Despite having a beak, the beastman managed to convey a sad smile. "I was a hunter for my tribe, up in the mountains near what the humans call Eredar. During a rather unsuccessful hunt, I spotted a large goat lying on the ground. As it was a rather unsuccessful season for our tribe, I relished this chance to put food on the table." A whistling sligh was emitted throug his cracked beak. "What a fool I was. It was a trap set by some slavers. They managed to trap me within some sort of choking haze before two others jumped out and grabbed me. I fought as hard as I could but...well, one can only do so much when they cannot breathe, no?" a small bitter chuckle skipped through his beak. "After that...they took a bonesaw to my wings and...well, here I am." He looked out the window wistfully, losing track of himself before once more falling into a coughing fit. Eltharion meanwhile pet him on the back between the wing stubs, unsure of what to say as he stared at the floor.

"Enough *cough* about *cough* me!" the birdman squeezed between rasping coughs, "What of you, my friend?" As he took a deep breath, he looked up with pained eyes. Pained, but brave eyes. Eltharion sat back and stared at the opposite bench, looking over a broad, brown bearded dwarf and a female dwarf who lacked the usual accoutrements. "What're ye lookin at, ye slant eared, tree humpin' twink?" the male one roared as he met Eltharion's gaze. The elf narrowed his eyes before looking away. "I was a Forest Thorn officer on the Palarian strip," he said as he folded his hands in front of him, "I served with honour and distinction, attempting to push the dwarves out of our ancestral homelands. After a particularly disastrous skirmish, we were surrounded and given a choice or either surrender, or death." Taking a deep breath, the elf clenched his fists. "Using my status as leverage...I arranged for the safety of the rest of the survivors of our ordeal in exchange for me coming quietly. After days of confinement and interrogation as a prisoner, I was deemed useless to their cause and sold to a slave trader." Looking up, he could see a smug smile on the male dwarf's face. He ground his teeth. "One day...I will return to my homeland and push the invaders back into their own lands...but until then, I am stuck here."

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A high pitched squaking noise interrupted Duvain as a small, furry, claw hooked arm gently rested itself on her leg. There was no force behind it, so it was most likely not hostile. Upon further investigation, she would find that it was a small sloth which had been slowly crawling towards her for the last...20 or so minutes. Apparently someone had left the creature in the cart after being finishing with it. That, or this cart magically produced sloths at random. Either way, the arm slowly drew back gefore the claws gently hooked onto Duvain's leg, the sloth pulling itself closer and letting out another squeak.

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"Bloody hoidy toidy elves," Griffith muttered as he shifted in his seat, folding his tree-stump like arms across his beard, "thinkin' tha' they're so great." Looking over to an empty seat, he looked to the right of it and saw a small figure huddled in the corner "Oi, Prinneh!" he called over to a scared looking adolescent human who instantly snapped up like a rabbit caught in the lantern light, "quit embarrassin' yerself an' git on th' bench lad. No-ones gonna yell at ye if ye do." Slowly and maintaining eye contact, the human boy stood up and sat down on the bench, folding his hands and placing them over his tightly locked legs. Griffith heard a slow beat despite all the talking and looked over to see a beardless Dwarfette rapping a beat on the wooden bench. "Ahh...when was th' las' time I heard th's beat?" he said as he shook his head, looking over to Koganusan as he started to stroke his beard. Looking over to the human, his mouth stretched into a smile under his bulbous nose. "Prinneh! When was th' last time we w're at Arz?" he asked somewhat loudly. The boy shuddered for a moment, before replying in a soft voice, "th-three weeks ago, sir." The dwarf clapped his hands together, startling the young boy. "Tha's right, three weeks ago," he confirmed as he rubbed his rough hands together, "I be guessin' yer from somewhere around thar then?" As if remembering he left a sweetroll in the burner, he held out a hand. "Allow me t' introduce meself, lassie, the names Griffith. I'm a warsmith...well was...and tha' human sacka' cowardice be my assistant, Prinneh!" With that, he turned to the human boy. "PRINNEH! Introduce yerself!" The boy gulped and looked towards Koganusan. "M-my name is Maximillion Primaris...the master calls me Pr-Prinny..." he replied, bowing his head.

So it seemed that, after relating his capture to the Forest Thorn, there was someone willing to share in his indignation without judgment. The elf was clearly not the snooty, delicate character that many of Kamnar’s Orcish brethren would portray in their anecdotes; rather, he had a careful and world-worn air about him that only elves could have, given their lengthy lifespans. Perhaps Kamnar had misjudged him, and the elf’s persuasive words were merely a result of his life experience. He suggested that his outrage might best serve as fuel for their inevitable battles in the Arena. Kamnar found no reason to disagree, nodding respectfully.

Meanwhile, the Skytalon told his own gruesome story to the other passengers, involving the brutal use of bait and choking gas and ending with his wings being hacked off with a saw. He was treated more like a beast than a man; Kamnar listened sympathetically, unable to imagine what it must be like to lose one’s most important power, in the bird-man’s case, flight. He supposed it would be like him losing his ability to Berserk, though from his perspective, that would be more of a relief than a curse. Kamnar never liked his race’s most infamous strength, as it essentially separated the mind and body. For some orcs, such a thing is almost irrelevant, but for Kamnar, it meant losing control over what happened next, over himself – and after being thrown forcibly into his current situation, he no longer wanted to lose control.

Soon after, the elf spoke up once more, this time telling of his own capture. He described how he, as a distinguished commander, gave himself up to become a war prisoner in exchange for his soldiers’ lives, and how he was eventually sold to a lanista. Kamnar found himself oddly envious; the Forest Thorn’s enslavement was a result of an honorable sacrifice that saved the lives of those he cared for, whereas his own came only from wrongful bloodshed. After a few moments, he decided that his initial distrust for the elf was baseless; someone like this would make not only for an exceptional ally in the Arena, but also a genuine comrade outside of it. There was only one thing he could think to do in order to show his newfound trust.

“Kamnar Murug-kah,” he said meaningfully. “That is what I am called, but Kamnar is sufficient.”

A high-pitched squeaking sound immediately had Garagogarag's attention. He scanned the cart for the source of the noise. At first, he thought it was a new sound the sickly Skytalon had somehow managed to create, but another coughing fit soon made it apparent that it was not. The squeak rose a third time and the Treeman's eyes honed in on the she-elf who had spoken up before. There was a fairly small Tree-Clinger holding on to her. He knew that sound was familiar! Tree-Clingers were a fairly common sight back home, thought they preferred to stay up in the tree and - as their name suggested - cling to trees all day. They were a most fascinating animal indeed...or at least they were if one had the patience and interest to observe them sleep, trek for hours from one end of a branch to another, before sleeping again. In fact, this very Tree-Clinger appeared to be making itself perfectly at home on the she-elf's arm and about to go to sleep.

Garagogarag made to stand, so as to approach the she-elf and inspect the Tree-Clinger more closely, but the carriage creaked dangerously below him and a few shouts from some of the others - particularly the Thunderhoof - forced him to remain seated. The cart may have been big and reinforced, but it was certainly not designed to have him walking wherever he wished, and there was not enough space for that anyway, now that he thought about it.
What in the world were you planning to do? Hug it? It's a damn sloth! You must be desperate if even a sloth draws your interest. But then again, with this company, I don't exactly blame you... the child gave the elf who had spoken earlier a cutting glare as its thoughts trailed off into a tirade about all these cocky, arrogant, good-for-nothing idealists who walk around like they defecate gol...

With that, Garagogarag decided it to be a good idea not to listen in on that particular tirade. He turned back to the orc who was now speaking to the elf.
'Kamnar Murug-kah,' he was saying, 'that is what I am called, but Kamnar is sufficient.'
Garagogarag had seen many orcs, but he had never conversed with them. This one seemed rather more willing to speak than them, and its aura was not quite so savage or hostile. If anything, it seemed quite...thoughtful. Thoughts were not something one could see, but there was something in this one's eyes. It thought alot. Perhaps this thoughtfulness came with the experience it had before being enslaved, but Garagogarag felt it was deeper than that, this thoughtfulness was much deeper than a mere event, it seemed to have a permanent place in the Orc's eyes, and its brows were constantly ever so slightly furrowed with thought - perhaps it was completely unconscious.
Kamnar Murug-kah was an interesting Orc. Very interesting. It was one to watch. The child on his shoulder, though Garagogarag did not see it, was probably rolling its eyes as him as it made a jibe about his tastes when it came to what was interesting and was not. Garagogarag cocked his head at that, the child raised an interesting point about his personality, he would have to think about it. But it was very interesting.
He found himself thinking once more about the Skytalon's words and his own earlier thoughts about his relationship with this child. He did not believe it was something he needed to tell the others about or explain. It was not that he was a very private individual - quite the contrary - but he knew just as much about this strange bond as anyone else in the cart. Perhaps that was a bit of an exaggeration, but it was pretty close to the truth.
Can you go to the Tree-Clinger now? he suddenly asked the child. It responded with a quizzical look.
What makes you think I ever agreed to go to the sloth in the first place? the child's thoughts were as disdainful as ever. Garagogarag stared longingly at the Tree-Clinger before looking back at the child with a wide-eyed, appealingly innocent gaze. The child's eyes widened and it visibly paled at the sight before it.
What in the world are you doing! Put that horrific thing away!
'By the gods! My eyes!' Garagogarag blinked a few times, wondering what had been so terrible as to warrant the child to actually speak. It peeked back at him and was relieved to find that whatever face the Treemind had been making was now - thankfully - gone.
'Never do that again!' It attempted to whack Garagogarag on the head with its tiny fist, but only winced and brought its hand to its chest and rubbed it, 'if looks could kill, I'd be a decomposing elf or two.'
As the child looked away, having caught the attention of most in the cart with the display, it gave the golden-haired elf a wishful look, as if saying that it only wished there was a certain decomposing elf sitting right there...

The Skytalon stared at the two with mouth - or rather, beak - agape, its coughing fit forgotten.
'Guessing you're not that little demon's adoptive father after all, eh big fellah?' the comment cemented the poor Skytalon's position as the next victim of the child's glare. It gave an uneasy, clicky laugh before falling into another coughing fit. Garagogarag sighed, this certainly was not going to make either himself or the child all that popular with the others.
Never said I want to be popular with this lot, the vehement thoughts of the child came. No, Garagogarag had not been left with any doubts about that.
Shaking his head, Garagogarag spoke.

'We Apologise. Child is Unsettled. It is Irked by Strangers,' he paused, knowing that his deep, powerful voice had reached everyone in the cart. It was a good opportunity to test his speaking and get introductions out of the way.
'We are Garagogarag Ogorogo. Great Tree-Claw of the Treeminds,' he turned to Kamnar, 'you honour us with your name,' he allowed his eyes to turn to the elf and quickly took in the others before continuing, 'will all those here honour us so? It is good to know one another.'

His gaze fell on the she-elf and the Tree-Clinger.
'Especially you to whom the Tree-Clinger clings.'

The dwarf let her hand be crushed by the rude warsmith, and made a mental note to kill him first before he dragged her species through the mud any further. He'd been around humans for too long, she could tell. The exagerated accent, the swagger, the way he treated his apprentice, it was all too dwarfish. All she wanted to do was stick her finger in his mouth and make him say "You" properly. Not "Yeh", or "Yer", but something with a godsdammed Omnicron in it. Oscar. Dash dash dash. It's not nutritious, so stop swallowing it. Okay, maybe she was slightly biased, but nobody should just interrupt somebody like that. She'd been wrenched out of that pleasant little daze pretty much every dwarf went into while creating, even if all it was was tapping out a little beat on plywood, and suddenly having to talk, and seem interested in someone else's petty little life like she cared about any of it just didn't appeal right now. She stole a glance at Maximillion, and their eyes met for a moment. Unlucky little prick, to be shackled up to some short human and bundled into a slave pit smelling of sloth dung. Even the worms at the bottom of wine barrels could still spit on him.

"Afternoon, Mister Griffith." She said, curtly. If he had a single shred of common sense in that thin skull of his, (A thick skull to a dwarf is a compliment.) he'd take the hint, and let the conversation trail off naturally, so she could get back to... whatever it was she was doing. Must've been something important, sure. Wouldn't have gotten so angry about nothing, now, would she? Of course not. That wouldn't be logical. But anyway, that was all she needed to say, for now. Maybe now, in the slightly awkward silence as he waited for her to say something, she could look at some of the other slaves, try and see who was worth setting up alliances with. Probably not the prinny kid, though. If you told him to jump, he'd probably ask the short human for how high he was meant to. The bunch of elves opposite... Probably not. Genocidal wars left scars that took a while to heal. The beastmen... Eh, if nothing else failed. That left the orc, who appeared to be trying to chat up one of the elves. Kinky. But still, far and away her best bet right now, if only he hadn't been put next to the elves. Seemed like nobody wanted to be next to the dwarf. Obvious, really, with the short bearded human peddling his minstrel show antics for everyone to see. If anything, she could still try to hide behind the beastlings during all-out combat.

"Kam...nar..." Eltharion said, the harsh syllables causing him to struggle. Truly, the language of the orcs suited their strength. Elvish tended to be much...smoother and gentler on the tongue than most other languages, or at least out of the ones he heard. "It is a pleasure," he said as he slapped an open hand against his chest. It was an old tribal salute. One of the more war-like elf tribes, the original home of the forest thorns was within the broad plains of Althelara where they subjugated multiple, smaller elf tribes. This was, of course, before their unification centuries agobut the Athelarains kept to their martial traditions. This particular salute meant an open handed invitation and of bearing no ill will, the open hand bearing no weapon.

A few moments later, the cart suddenly shifted and creaked, causing the elf's head to snap around to his side. The bear creature had started to rise. Out of instincts, Eltharion grabbed his clawed arm and pulled downwards. "Standing now would not be the best action!" he shouted even as others started to shout, the Thunderhoof even standing up to prevent him by force if need be. As the beast tribesman settled down, Eltharion breathed a sigh of relief even as the coach driver shouted back to settle down, his voice loud, bellowing and guttural. The skytalon chuckled as he managed to stay lucid for a moment. "I know how he feels," he said as he tried to flap the vestigial nubs of his wings, "it is...different to be grounded for so long." There was a pang if incredible sadness in his voice as he seemed to sink deeper into his seat. Eltharion remained silent. He never was a very good commander in terms of morale. He was actually quite deficient in that aspect. He could only lead through valour. What was he meant to say in this situation? Slowly, he reached out his hand and placed a hand on the skytalon's shoulder. He said nothing. In return, the skytalon did his strange beaky smile before looking back into the ground.

Another outburst from the child on the bear's shoulder caused Eltharion to groan quietly and look around. This certainly was a dynamic pair. As the child turned its scornful gaze his way, Eltharion returned it twofold. He was not sure what he had done to draw his ire but any grudge against him, the elf would be happy to return. Its gaze shifted to the skytalon as he made an off-handed comment in jest. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but the words caught in his throat before he could voice them. Best not to antagonise the situation. The elf liked it when hearts were worn on their sleeves and simply hated it when he knew someone was hiding something. Before he could rescind his decision and complain, the bear tribesman spoke up. His voice was harsher even than the orc, similar to hearing the skytalon cough up his lungs but in an understandable sense. He proceeded to introduce himself and then ask the names of everyone else, especially someone to whom a...tree clinger clung...what in the seven gates of Fhanir was a tree clinger. Looking over in the direction his eyes pointed, Eltharion spotted the female canopy strider with a sloth dangling lazily off of her outstretched arm. The pieces then fit together.

There was an awkward silence as Garagog's question remained floating in the air. No-one wished to divulge their name first, heavens know why. Shrugging inwardly, Eltharion cleared his throat. "I am knows as Eltharion among our people, bearing the name in likeness of our great city," he said, bowing his head slightly in respect. There was not much else to say, although he expected at least a few mispronounciations. Thankfully, that seemed to break the silence as the skytalon next to him piped up. "I am Ktakar," he chirruped to break his melancholy. To Eltharion, that wasn't a name. That was a two syllable long noise. "I know our language is hard for you non skytalons to pronounce, so feel free to call me Kar," he continued. Inwardly, the elf breathed a sigh of relief. Looking expectantly at the Thunderhoof beside him, Eltharion raised an eyebrow, causing him to snort, steam shooting out of his nostrils. "My name is Hroth, do not overuse it," he said gruffly, his arms folded across his chest. Looking at the female elf, she seemed to be oddly enchanted by the sloth taking refuge on her arm. She seemed to be in her own little world. Canopy striders always were a bit odd in the head he thought as his eyes flicked to the other side of the cart. They focussed on the two dwarves who seemed to be engaged in their own conversation. His eyes hardened. Probably schemeing something. Like all their kind. That left the cowardly little human who seemed to be shrinking further into the shadows. No chance of a name there.

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While Kog MAY have wished for Griffith to stop...it was too bad that he was as thin-headed as she thought. He proceeded to regale her with all manner of mundane and extraordinary stories of his adventures, many of which seemed too fantastic to be true. Prinny meanwhile sighed and drew his legs up to his chest. He had already sat through too many of these stories...and this time Griffith wasn't even drunk. He didn't have an excuse. One thing was for sure. Griffith was pretty much every dwarven stereotype one could fit on a single dwarf. Hell, he even somehow brought out a flask hidden in his false arm and opened it, filling the cart with the foul stench of strong alcohol until he capped it again.Once again. Even if Kog was giving ANY indication to shut up, the dwarf ignored it in favour of that time he and his 371st cousin decimateded an entire Elvish regiment with a single trebuchet shot.

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After an approximate 10 minuted more of travel, the eerie silence of the early morning began to be replaced. The clatter of other carts could be heard, along with indistinct voices speaking in the human tongue, as well as common. The voices got louder as they continued along the road and could start to be distinguished.

"Come take a look at these leeches! Guarenteed to cure anything from hangovers to the plague!"
"A pound of Amarfruit! Thirteen denarii!"
"Freshly baked bread here! Get it while its hot!"
"For the last time Steven! I'm not marrying a cat to see if we can make a new beast tribesman!"

Apart from the last one, all signs pointed to them travelling through some sort of haggling grounds. The cart-bound slaves looked uneasily at each other. It seemed they were nearing their destination. Soon, the voices grew indistinct again, replaced by the cheer of multiple voices and the occassional scream. Eltharion tried not to think about it as he flexed his fingers. With a sudden jolt, the cart stopped, causing the elf to press on the bench to maintain balance. The back of the cart opened up to reveal blinding sunlight. A moment later, it gave way to reveal a cobblestone paved road surrounded by tall stone buildings. The materials ranged from cheap sandstone to glorious marble and one could see a pattern if they looked into the distance. Emerging from beside the cart, the lanista hobbled out of the shadows and stood in the sun. "End of the road, my friends," he said, a lopsided grin on his face, "permanently for some of you.

When the bear-man attempted to stand, the entire carriage squeaked and groaned like an upset cat, making everyone aboard shout angrily at him to “Sit down, damn it” and “Stop that!” Kamnar managed to grip the bench to stabilize himself; some other weaker prisoners jolted forward unpleasantly. He traced the longing gaze of the beastman to a furry gray animal wrapped around the elven girl’s arm, its movements slow and calculated. Kamnar had never seen such a creature, but its snout reminded him vaguely of the wild boars that roam the outskirts of Hel-brok’thar. Why such an animal was here was beyond him; the past few days have been so jarring that he can barely be surprised by its presence.

Those individuals nearest to him – the bear-beastman, the Forest Thorn, the Skytalon, and the Thunderhoof – introduced themselves one at a time, whether they seemed particularly interested in doing so or not, and Kamnar made an effort to memorize each of their names. And though he did not recognize the male elf’s salute, he accepted it with a bow of his head. As for the ones whose names he did not know – the Canopy Strider, the dwarves, and the meek human – they have not gone unnoticed by Kamnar; every moment he has experienced and person he has come into contact with thus far have been molded to the forefront of his mind, stirring and crystalizing, in an attempt to avoid thinking too much about the events – and the individual – that brought him here. Surely, he thought, focusing on the elements around him would be a more beneficial way of coping.

At last, the never-ending quiet ceased as the sounds of a bustling marketplace gradually filled the mid-morning wind, traveling through the carriage’s barred windows. Their little cart-ride seemed much longer than it was to Kamnar; his muscles felt sore and he wanted nothing more than to stretch and breathe in fresh air. Orcs were not meant to be still for long periods of time. But he regretted almost immediately his eagerness to step outside; the distinct sounds of clashing steel, cheering crowds, and bloodcurdling cries hit his ears, and a dreadful pit in his stomach emerged. The cart came to an abrupt halt, forcing some prisoners, including Kamnar, to lurch without warning. His impending destiny as an Arena combatant matched the despicable eyes of the smirking, greasy lanista, who had pulled open the cart’s back door, making the slaves shield their eyes from the sudden burst of light.

End of the road, my friends, the aristocrat said smugly. Kamnar hesitated at first, but stiffened himself and stood up. Being closest to the door, he followed the lanista out of the carriage and down the ramp, a nearby guard promptly slapping chains on his wrists, binding him to each subsequent exiting slave and forming a long, single-file line of future Arena fighters. He looked around at the lively, bustling city, and realized at once that this was Lairea! Kamnar had been here many times on diplomatic duties; he recalled that there was an extraordinary marble forum lined with infinitely tall pillars just a few blocks west of where they were, where he often attended political meetings. Somehow, this beautiful city which used to incite fond memories in him now seemed to fill him with unease; the domed buildings appeared to loom over him like menacing heads.

He was broken out of his brief stupor by the guards pulling his chains and forcing him to move forward. The lanista’s words echoed in Kamnar’s mind as he walked along the familiar cobblestone pathway, permanently for some of you, as if this were an entirely new concept to him; he was not going to die here if he had any say in it, but he realized that if he were going to survive, then he might have to slay those he had met and acquainted himself with today. That small, incessant voice from before warned him not to become too attached, and though he knew it would be the smart thing to do, Kamnar found the thought distasteful at best. If there were any possible way to control their placement in the Arena, then he would rather see to that than face them in battle.

'End of the road, my friends,' the voice of the Treeleg, 'permanently for some of you.' Garagogarag looked at him as he smiled. It was rather sinister, even for a thing so funny as the Treeleg. As Kamnar left, the huge Tree-Mind stood and made his way out after the orc, the cart creaking in complaint. Standing up before had really gotten a bad reaction, he would have to stay seated in future. It dawned on him that, while he thought of the future as a given, perhaps it was not so for the others.

Looking around and listening to the screams and the undoubted sounds of battle, Garagogarag wondered if the eternal sleep could really take him here. No, the Life would not have brought him here if it was only to die. He would live, so long as that was the will of the Life, so it would be. The guards attempted to chain him, but his thick arms were far to big and the Lanista waved him to the side. The huge oaf had not attempted escaping before, he would not do so now.

You know, if you chose to walk away right now, no one could stop you... the thoughts of the child penetrated his mind and Garagogarag considered them for a moment.
The Life has willed. We must as the Life commands obey. the child stared at the bearman's big head for a while. Even as they understood each other and communicated on this most intimate of levels, the child could not truly say it fully understood the bearman. Neither could Garagogarag say he understood the child, but they were inextricably linked. Garagogarag was certain that the Life had willed it such.

Once all the others had left the cart, and were chained, they were led in single file into the building on a cobblestone path. Garagogarag took up the rear of the line.
'Ye're not planning on taking that kid into the pit with you now, are ye?' the Skytalon's voice reached him. He was the last to have been chained and so was right before Garagogarag.
'The Life has willed. The child shall remain. No danger shall befall it.' at this, the Skytalon let out a disgruntled click, was that not a tad foolish? Powerful as the Tree-mind was, it could not expect to defend both the child and itself now, did it? Or was there something more to this child? Perhaps it could fight or use magic...after all, it did not act like any normal child at all.

Eventually they came to a circular room of sorts, and a second corridor led further down. Garagogarag's ears could still hear the sounds of cheering and fighting. It was all coming from somewhere further down this corridor. He wondered once more, if there was a creature so mighty out there as to bring about his eternal sleep.

Unfortunately, Duvain was in a trance for most of the ride. In fact, she might have fallen asleep with her eyes open at one point. However, when she awoke, the first thing she noticed was that the cart had stopped. The lanista shouted some words at them, but Duvain was too busy realizing that a sloth clung to her arm. Confused and disoriented, Duvain attempted to peal it off of her. Without realizing it, she was the only one left in the cart. Before she got yelled at, she abandoned her attempt at getting rid of the beast on her and rushed out.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the light, but when she did, she was in the middle of a large city. Duvain had never seen anything like it. In her village people lived a comfortable distance from each other, but here everything was jammed together. She suddenly felt clausterphobic and couldn't move. A rough tug on the arm from a guard finally got her moving again. But still, the sensation of everything closing in on her lingered.

The guards shackled her, giving her rough treatment. Her hair was pulled, and her body was pushed around. Occasionally her face was slapped for insubordination. For some strange reason, no one questioned the sloth.

As Duvain got closer to arena, the sounds became overwhelming. Cheers, clashes of metal, grunts, and cries of agony filled her ears. The raw sounds felt so surreal to Duvain that she almost forgot that she was going to be in that ring. So, she waited in line, waiting for the inevitable fight she'd have to endure.

With chains clasped on his wrists and the commanding barks of the arena guards in his ears, Eltharion found himself being tugged along as Kamnar started to trudge forward. The architecture here was greatly different than what he was used to and he felt a tad claustraphobic as he walked beneath the worn stone doorway of the building. As he entered, the pungent scent of sweat and the ferrous smell of blood mixed into his sensitive nose, causing him to wince and turn away, but it was no use. He could already feel it permeating his rags and skin. He convinced himself that this was nothing new. He had already faced much worse in the field against dwarves and the smell would be the least of his worries. The blank sandstone blocks seemed identical as they were marched down the corridor, the sounds of their clinking chains echoing down the hallway. At the same time, they could hear muffled cheers as the people inside the arena grew raucous at some exciting turn of events.

After what seemed like an hour traversing the worn stone floor, Eltharion gathered the distinct feeling that they were descending. He felt a gentle pressure in his sensitive elven eardrums as he followed Kamnar, almost tripping on a raised section of flooring. The narrow passageway soon opened up into a wider area lit with torches, where the smell of blood, antiseptic, sweat and pain all mingled together to form an unholy brew. Everywhere he looked he could see someone. Some where in better shape than others while others looked minutes from becoming a corpse. They stopped for a second as two humans ran past with a stretched between them, bearing a screaming orc as a length of shattered metal was lodged in his chest. "I like not the look of this place," Eltharion muttered under his breath as they were herded towards an emptier section of the room. As the drew closer, the elf spotted a wooden platform with a series of beams and pulleys attached to it. A wrought iron cage with a gate surrounded the structure and he could see the light of day flooding in from above. Suddenly a screaming elf fell through it, landing with a resounding thud against the wooden floor. The sound caused many of the people in the room to look around, but they quickly dismissed it as if it was completely normal. Cheers rang through the stone room before a thin, sickly looking man walked up to the gate, swinging it open. "Those under Lanista Eridius please enter the lift," he shouted as the previous two humans ran in to remove the supine elf, dragging her away by her hands and legs. An unhealthy amount of blood stained her leather wrappings. He noticed that a few of their group, namely the small human, gasped and muttered amongst themselves. Eltharion himself stayed silent. Death was a common occurence to him...but to die for the entertainment of other...what cruel joke was this.

"Fifty denars the elves don't live," remarked a brutish looking face beside them. Large, hale and scarred all over, the human male sneered as he ran a whetstone over the edge of his axe, striking sparks which lit up his dim corner. "You would be surprised how nimble we can be, Ortega," muttered a more refined voice as an elf strode past, a noble leonine face joining the voice as she shed her thin layer of leather armour, revealing a bloodstained aketon "strength does not only come in the form of a sack of meat." Their little spat grew more indistinct as their little group was directed away to a little alcove. Shelves and racks lined the walls, sparsely filled with weapons and rusted armor plates. As the final member of their little party filed into the now slightly cramped cavern the orc that they had seen at the Lanista's ludus removed a rusted set of keys from his belt and proceeded to unlock the chains of every one of them, letting them clatter to the ground.

Rubbing his chafed wrists, Eltharion walked up to one of the racks and started to eye them over. These weapons were not of elf worksmanship, that was for sure. Mass produced, heavy looking and crude, these all bore the hallmarks of the standard human forging process. As he started to reach up to grab one of the spears on the wall, he felt a brutal hand on his shoulder drag him back, the thick green fingers applying undue pressure to his joint. "Don't touch the weapons," he hissed, sending spittle over the elf's face. "How do you expect us to fight without any arms?" the elf hissed back angrily as he pulled the orc's hand off, turning to face him. "That's not me problem now, is it?" was the reply as the orc scooped up the chains and left the alcove, leaving the new gladiators stunned. They were to be unarmed? Eltharion gritted his teeth. he did not like his chances in unarmed combat...

A few moments later, the Lanista hobbled in, his cane making a rhythmic tapping along with his peg leg. As the torch finally illuminated his face in the doorway, Eltharion stepped forward. "What is the meaning of this, Lanista?" he asked as he held his arm in check, "I thought you wanted us to fight, not die like newborn lambes."
That all knowing grin spread across the old man's face again as he leaned his back against the stone wall. "Ye'll be goin' into the arena unarmed aye," he said as he scratched the back of his neck, "but your opponents...oh they'll be equipped with some weapons alright."
"I hardly find that sporting," Ktakar interjected as he stood up straight, fluffing his feathers, "we'll be slaughtered in seconds. Even for a place where we're supposed to die, thats too quick."
"I never said those opponents had to keep those weapons," the lanista mused as he shrugged, "plus you might find some other equipment scattered around from...uh...previous challengers that weren't cleaned up. Other than that, good luck my friends."
As he turned to leave, something seemd to strike him haflway out the door. "Oh, and I should remind you. Look to your left, then look to your right. Remember these faces. They will be your allies for this fight. Try not to stab them in the heat of the moment." With an offhanded wave, he disappeared into the dimly lit hallway, leaving his gladiators stupefied. Ever quick to take charge, Eltharion sighed and folded his arms. "Well, any bright ideas?" he asked as he sat against the wall, eyeing the spear racked on it. Perhaps he could sneak one in...

The chain of future fighters were led through the stone-and-marble city like cattle, imperial citizens staring at them and muttering to each other. Some who understood their fate looked sympathetic, while others grinned in excitement for the same reason.

They soon arrived at a tall, ominous structure built of black bricks which Kamnar could only assume was the Arena itself, though they seemed to be going through a back entrance; the front was probably for the spectators and gamblers. Down they went along a shoddy stone hallway, blood stains old and new decorating the walls and floor. It served as an effective warning for new arrivals, but not as effective as the smell. A sudden, wafting stench of death and gore sent a shockwave of disgust down the line of shackled slaves. Though Kamnar was not unfamiliar with this smell, it still strengthened his feeling of foreboding tenfold.

Eventually, the corridor led to a large training and preparation room, dimly lit by scant torches and an iron forge in a far corner. It was filled nearly to the brim with Arena fighters, some looking just as apprehensive as the newcomers, others more like experienced gladiators. Not seconds after did the group see firsthand the victims of this cruel sport ‒ an orc impaled through the torso and a bloodied she-elf, who had fallen from a hole in the battlefield floor above. Kamnar was thoroughly disturbed, but hardened his face as he felt the eyes of the veteran gladiators upon him; the last thing he wanted was to make enemies here by seeming nervous. Just as that thought passed his mind, the human called Prinny seemed to be melting into an anxious puddle as his dwarf companion rolled his eyes.

They were forced once again into a small corner, rough iron weapons hanging from metal racks on the walls and ceiling, a small torch barely lighting the area. The same orc from the ludus, the one who held a particular grudge against Kamnar, unchained each of them, being sure to unchain Kamnar’s own bindings unnecessarily aggressively.

“Don't touch the weapons,” the orc guard said to Eltharion after he had attempted to take a spear off the wall.

The realization that they would not be allowed weapons was unexpected, to say the least; Kamnar himself was decent enough at unarmed combat, but he feared the others would not last long. Only a moment later did the Lanista arrive, clad in a foppish purple overcoat. Leaning against the stone wall and twirling his wooden cane, he told them that their opponents, unlike them, would be armed, which snapped Kamnar’s confidence like a twig. He also recommended that they remember each other’s appearances, as they would be fighting as a team. Kamnar was not worried about that, as each of their faces have already been ingrained into his memory, fluid expressions of crimson paint.

“Well, any bright ideas?” Eltharion spoke up once more. Kamnar noticed a wall of smaller weapons, like daggers and throwing knives, on the wall behind him. The Forest Thorn seemed to be having the same idea as he, though he was staring in the direction of the spears.

“If it means survival, then the rules don’t mean anything to me. I suggest we each sneak in a small weapon as best as we can,” Kamnar said, checking around the corner for listening ears. Though they were all wearing rags, he supposed it shouldn’t be too difficult to hide a single blade in a fold of cloth, or possibly sheathed in a rope-belt. He picked a gently rusted dagger from the wall, which was almost small enough for him to completely conceal in his closed fist. If he was careful, he figured he could palm it past the guards, though some smaller-handed fighters may have a more difficult time.