Their trek through the maze-like passageways of the arena continued for a while, the strange white rock of the passages passing them by. Every now and then they came to a passageway with a rather low ceiling and the great Treemind had to bend down slightly in order to get through. The walk came to an end, however, when one of those many passageways finally opened up into a wider hall of sorts, lit with torches across the walls. The moans and cries of the injured and the dying, as well as the putrid smell, had reached Garagogarag long before the passageway had opened up, and the disgust and nausea which had grown in him before now reached a peak.
Looking around, he saw the blood everywhere and the screams seemed suddenly distant, the smell overwhelming his senses and his sight blurring.

Hey, what's going on? Are you ok? The child's clearly fearful thoughts penetrated the veil of nausea which had overcome his senses. It seemed their link made it so they could even share extreme emotions, for the child's fear pervaded the Treemind's thoughts. It did not help and so he quickly expelled the emotion. Thinking he had gotten better, Garagogarag looked around, only to notice that his feet were suddenly unable to carry him. He was forced to squat and put his hands on the ground for a few seconds in order to regain his composure. The tattoos all over his body were flashing different shades of green and moving around frantically. Shaking his head and steeling himself against the almost evil aura of the place, Garagogarag stood back up, just in time to see a screaming orc on a stretcher being rushed past. He had a length of shattered metal in his chest and blood flowed profusely from the wound. Then a bloodied she-elf fell from the roof and people were talking and the shouts were getting louder and louder and above, the cheers were squeezing in on Garagogarag. Bracing himself and containing a roar of desperation, he walked after his group who were walking off to a little alcove.
The shouts and smell did not depart as Garagogarag joined the group last of all, and he still felt on edge. He wanted to rip and tear, to force all this blood and noise and all these smells to tremble in fear and simply stop.

Where he now stood with his group, shelves and racks of varying weapons and armors lined the walls. The Orc who had been caned the day before was removing the chains from the others. When he came to Garagogarag he looked over the huge bear's arms, searching his furry forearms for the chains. Realising there were none there, he looked up at the bear and Gar looked back. Under normal circumstances, Gar would have offered a pleasant nod or explained that there were no chains big enough for him, but these were not normal circumstances and he did not feel very friendly at all. Instead, he bared back his lips and let out an angry little growl. The small Orc took this as a sign and quickly turned away and took out his anger at being humiliated at one the group. It was the elf, in fact, who appeared to be reaching for something on the racks. The Orc leapt upon him and dragged him back roughly.

'Don't touch the weapons,' he growled. A small squabble ensued, and Gar gathered that weapons would not be permitted in their upcoming fight. The Orc gathered up the chains and left the alcove, shooting Gar a look of hatred, through there was a healthy sprinkle of fear in there too.
You'll have to watch yourself around that one, came the child's thoughts. The fear had not left him, and Gar could not help the feeling that it was afraid of him. He made no reply.

A familiar tapping on the ground of the hall let Gar know that the Tree-Leg was here. The elf - who had introduced himself as Eltharion - confronted him.
'What is the meaning of this, Lanista? I thought you wanted us to fight, not die like newborn lambs.'
The Tree-Leg simply grinned. He certainly did not seem all that intimidated by the elf, though Gar imagined that had he been as small, old and weak as the Tree-Leg, he would have been a tad cautious.
'Ye'll be goin' into the arena unarmed aye, but your opponents...oh they'll be equipped with some weapons alright.'
This was followed by a brief bout of arguing in which the Tree-Leg made his position clear. They would not be armed. With that, he left.
'Well, any bright ideas?' came Eltharion's voice. There was a brief moment of silence before the Orc - Kamnar was his name - made a response.

'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,' the Orc looked behind him, as if making surer that there were no unwanted listeners. With that, he moved towards the racks and picked up a small dagger. Gar considered all this. It certainly did not appeal to him this whole business of sneaking weapons in. The Tree-Leg had said there would be weapons in the pit. And he felt it was far too convenient for them to just be left inside not their own. Was this some kind of test of their abilities? Gar did not know, but he already had an idea for a battle plan. If they had to work as a team, then that was the greatest weapon of all.

'We work together,' he said, his emotions slowly calming as he contained the aura of the place. He would not let it get to him.
'Our teamwork. That is the greatest weapon,' with that, he stepped forward and surveyed the others, before pointing at Eltharion and the she-elf (who still had the Tree-Clinger hanging onto her), 'you two. You look fast. Nimble. When we get in. You gather weapons. Quickly,' he then pointed at Kamnar and the Thunderhoof.
'You two. You are strong. You protect everyone until weapons arrive,' he thought for a bit, 'maybe, if there is a wall. Keep against it,' he then considered everyone else. There was the sickly Skytalon, the little-man and his frightened boy, the small-woman, the Tree-Clinger and the child on his shoulder.
'I do not know you strengths,' he said to them, 'if you think you are fast. Join the elves. If you think you are strong. Join these two,' with that he backed away and said one last thing, 'but me. I will distract the others ones. I am big, my fur is strong. I will attack, draw them to me. Give you all time to be ready.' with his plan out in the open, he looked around to see what the others thought. Would they agree? Perhaps someone had a better plan. Perhaps they would reject him completely.

"Pardon my pessimism," Eltharion said as he rubbed the back of his dirty mane, "but unlike your finely muscled self, we elves do not really have anywhere to hide such a thing." To emphasise the point, Eltharion reached out a long, spindly arm which was just a wee bit wider than the shaft of the wall mounted spear, in th eprocess smoothing out his linen robes. Flicking his eyes around conspiratorially, he peered into the darkness behind Kamnar. No-one seemed to be spying on their conversation, at least, not from his angle. Leaning in, he whispered, "Although if the larger members of our little band were to surround someone smaller...we might be able to get a sword or two i-" His words were suddenly cut off by a loud, piercing screech of pain followed by a dull thud. It seemed another poor soul had fallen victim to the pit. The sound echoed in the chamber, causing the elf to wince visibly as his sensitive hearing amplified it tenfold. Now where was he...oh right, the weapons!

It was then that Gar decided to speak up in surprisingly non fragmented speech. With this newfound burst of eloquence, he detailed a plan for their survival. It was a sound plan, and one which would possibly serve to let them see the next sun...only, the simplistic bear man forgot one tiny detail. "Like hell I'll be workin' w'th an elf!" Griffith shouted, his deep voice echoing loudly in their chamber.
"The feeling is reciprocated," Eltharion replied as he folded his arms, "I have no qualms working with the rest of you but dwarves...specifically this foul mouthed specimen...I refuse to assist. "After all, they were the ones that led to my downfall," he muttered under his breath."
"What'd ye say ye poncy l'ttle ember!?" the squat man continued, drawing closer to the elf as he tried to pry a hammer off the wall. "I said that your kind, and especially you, are the scum of Arkreides!" the elf retorted as he himself reached for a spear.

"Well...that had the opposite effect of what I thought would happen," came a familiar voice. As the members of the party turned to face the owner of the voice, Ktakar desparately prying the two apart, one clawed talon pressing down on Griffith's head and the other pushing Eltharion back, they saw that the Lanista was back, with a man clothed in a bloodstained robe, a slate and quill in his hand. "Charges of Lanista Draigo, I take it?" he sighed in a nasal, ratty voice, "I've seen worse I guess..." tipping his peach fuzzy moustache down, the balding human began to scribble down on the slate with his quill, while all those around him watched in stunned silence. After a minute of this, he looked back up to the Lanista."Well, the fee is paid and your gladiators don't grossly break any rules...apart from maybe the bear, but I don't get paid enough to care." With a loud tearing of parchment, he handed a thin sheaf of the stuff to the lanista, who signed his name with his own quill before turning around."Get ready lads and ladies," he said with a sinister smile, "it's showtime in 5 minutes.

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

"Those under Lanista Draigo, please enter the lift,"came that disembodied voice again. After roughly a minute more of squabbling in that little chamber, the members of thier party were herded out in front of the caged pit that served as the lift. While the statement had been said with some politeness,there was anything but, an orc and elf forcing them onto the winched platform which swayed as Gar was prodded on. Eltharion took a deep breath. It was time. With the clinking of chains and soft groaning of the links, their motley little crew was raised up into the arena. The sudden influx of light threatened to blind the elf as he screwed his eyes shut and lifted his arm to shield himself. As hsi vision slowly adjusted, he began to make out a few vague shapes. First were the tiered stone benches which teemed with people. A second later, the sound washed over him like a wave, the cheers roaring through the entire arena as people waved flags, hands and pantaloons. As he looked back down, Eltharion could see two similar caged platforms apart from their own, each one holding a different assortment of races. It seemed that this fight would be bloodier than he had expected. Finally came the ground...the horrible, horrible ground. It was a mess. Severed limbs, pools of blood and the occassional decapitated head dotted the sand, a testament to the brutality of this place, but what Eltharion was more interested in was the weapons that lay strewn around. Axes, spears, swords, a whole range of weapons were strewn around the sands; some of which still had parts of previous owners still attached.

"Thank you ladies and gentlemen for waiting until the final fight!" shouted the disembodied voice, considerably more excited than before, "and boy do we have a show for you today! In the southern lift, we have the gladiators of House Damzal! Made of up disgraced soldiers and unruly mercenaries, they are today's hot picks for the betting table!" Looking over to the mentioned entrance, Eltharion could see a group of mostly humans who had their heads hung down, as if in shame. Is that what happned to disgraced human soldiers? If so, they were a more barbaric race than he had inititially thought. "And on the Eastern lift, we have the hereticss of Ferriston! Caught by the most HOLY of inquisitions, these heretics may be able to redeem themselves if their entertain us enough...or they can die." This prompted a bit of laughter from the crowd. Eltharion could feel himself getting sicker as this went on. Those people or 'Heretics' were rattling at the gates, proclaiming their innocence. Poor bastards. "And finally, in the Northern lift, we are lucky enough to be hosting the newly drawn talent of Ludus Draigo!" The third cheer was the loudest of all. It was almost deafening.

"...I assume we go by Gar's plan?" Eltharion hazarded as he started to trace a path to collecting weapons. "Its the best chance we've got," Ktakar said unsteadily as he subconciously scratched his chest.

Though Gar did not know why, but it seemed that the elf, Eltharion, and the little man somehow knew each other and were not on the best of terms with each other. That would not do at all, whatever enmity lay between them had to put to the side, or neither would live through whatever was ahead of them, let alone live long enough to wreak whatever vengeance they wished against the other. Gar was about to speak up in an attempt to temporarily conciliate between the two, but then the all too familiar voice of the Tree-Leg sounded out. Gar glanced at Ktaker, who was closest to the two, and the Skytalon gave him a nod of understanding before moving to separate the two. As the Tree-Leg spoke, he pried the two apart, one clawed talon pressing down on the stubborn Griffith's head and the other pushing Eltharion back.

When the red-garbed man spoke about Gar breaking some kind of rule, the Treemind looked towards the child on his shoulder in confusion, asking if he had done something wrong without realising.
Yes, you're too bloody big that's what's wrong! the child's sarcastic thoughts came back, try shrinking six or seven feet.

Well, he couldn't do that, now, could he? It was not an ability Treeminds had, as far as he was aware. He quickly realised, however, that the child was simply being its sarcastic self, and he quickly gathered that the red-garbed man did not seem too fussed by Gar's overly large size.

They were soon shuffled out of the small armoury and a disembodied voice said something about those under a Lanista 'Draigo'. The Tree-Leg had not actually told anyone his name, Gar suddenly realised. Tree-Leg Draigo he was, it seemed. As they were shuffled onto they tiny cage - at least, tiny with Gar in it. It was rather uncomfortable for the huge Treemind, having to bend down slightly while also attempting not to crush anyone against the bars of the cage. The cage rose and the stench of the pit hit Gar like battering ram, and when he finally saw the blood and the limbs, the effects on him grew even worse. He gave a slight growl - or was it is a groan of pain? - as he tried to focus himself and expel the nausea. The roar of the crowd came to him as if across a large expanse of land, echoing in his mind in an almost mocking manner. It only increased his agitation and unstable state, and the tattoos on his body were green and dripped down his body like some kind of disgusting mucus.

His sight blurred and his hearing distorted and the smell of blood and death overwhelming him, Gar barely registered what was being announced, though he did recognise the rise in the crowds of the cheers and the odd movement in the pit which betrayed the positions of their opponents. It was the final cheer, however, which overwhelmed Gar most of all. Far too loud. There was far too much noise and too much blood in this place. He could neither stand it nor handle it. He had the oddest feeling that someone was talking in the cage, but he did not hear what they said. There was but one thing on his mind: stop the noise; stop the blood.

Releasing a most thunderous roar from his chest, deafening his comrades, he leapt towards the bars. Had they not opened at that second, there was every possibility the Treemind would have torn them apart with his inhuman strength. As it were, the cage was saved and the wild bearman burst into the pit with speed, the child flying from his shoulder due to the speed and falling into the terrified Prinny.
Reaching the middle of the pit, Gar stood to his full height and fired off another ear-piercing roar, before he instinctively turned upon the greatest source of danger. His eyes focused on the disgraced soldiers and his singular desire to put an end to the noise and the blood made them the source of his suffering. Without hesitation, the Treemind charged towards them, range bared and claws prepared, and his fur bristling upwards like some kind of porcupine. But perhaps the most terrifying of all were the tattoos upon his body, now fully black and crackling upwards, and upon his chest was the undeniable face of a most terrible, cackling demon.

It seemed that, whether Gar had intended it or not, he had gone right ahead with the plan he'd suggested. Whether the others would take this opportunity, while the undoubtedly terrifying form of Gar took up the attention of all, to gather weapons and prepare themselves remained to be seen.

“I could try to sneak in a few daggers and hand them out as soon as the fight starts,” Kamnar suggested, grabbing a few more of the rust-worn knives off the wall. Obviously, the rags they were given didn’t come with pockets, but they were held up by a thin rope-belt; placing it parallel to the rope and tightening it underneath, Kamnar saw that the dagger was fairly well hidden, so long as the guards weren’t looking too carefully. He was also able to hold one gently in his fist, as it seemed the blade was too dull to cut skin without enough force.

As he and Eltharion were discussing possible smuggling strategies, Gar began to speak in his strange parlance, proposing a plan that utilized teamwork and individual abilities. His idea was a pleasant surprise to Kamnar, if a bit idealistic – and sure enough, just as he was about to voice his agreement, Eltharion and the dwarf-man broke out into an argument. If Ktakar didn’t have the sense to break them apart, it would have become physical. Kamnar sighed in exasperation; he found their racial prejudices predictable, yet foolish, especially considering their current situation.

At that moment, the lanista returned with a man who seemed to be some sort of supervisor, papers and quill in hand. The lanista – Draigo was his name, apparently – told them all to prepare themselves for the upcoming fight. Shortly thereafter, the fighters were all guided to the caged elevator and cramped inside it. It all seemed to be moving too fast for Kamnar to process; as the cage ascended jerkily along its railings, he used this brief recess to mentally calm himself. He thought of the missionary trip he took to Uk Tu three summers ago, of watching the brilliant spores fall gently from the enormous mushroom shelters like leaves from a tree. At that time, Durak Bol-gar was more of a mentor to him than the traitor he sees him as today.

Just as Kamnar started to feel somewhat composed, the elevator rose to the inside of the battlefield, an absolute chaos of blood, guts, and bodies; the cheers of the crowd and the booming voice of the announcer blurred together confusingly. A mixture of disgust and terror threatened to overwhelm him, but he managed to exhale deeply, shutting his eyes and gripping his fists, the iron dagger poking at his palm; the dull sting brought him back to the present, and he resolved to fight with as much lucidity as he could muster.

Focusing on his surroundings, he noticed that the cheers from the crowd seemed to indicate the popularity of each group of fighters; considering the impressive roars following the broadcasting of their own Lanista Draigo’s name, Kamnar figured he must be well-known for choosing the toughest gladiators; that, or the crowd noticed Gar amongst them and thought any team with a bear-man had the best chances. Speaking of Gar, the creature seemed to be experiencing some sort of duress, far more primal than that which Kamnar felt; the markings on his body shifted and glided along his fur like liquid snakes. Kamnar had no clue as to what sort of magic they were, but Gar was clearly in no shape to answer questions.

Remembering his duty, Kamnar inconspicuously handed some of the fighters, including Ktakar and Prinny, the daggers he snuck in, keeping one for himself in case the weapon-gatherers were unable to acquire enough for everyone. Kamnar realized suddenly that the crowd had gone silent, presumably with anticipation. Without warning, all three cages opened, fighters from each end of the arena spilling out of them aggressively; Gar charged out through the open gate and into the battlefield with such ferocity that the other fighters, including Kamnar, were blasted backward against the bars. After recovering, Kamnar, keeping Gar’s plan in mind, allowed the elves to exit first behind Gar and followed them out with Hroth. Staying near the pit, he put his back against the closest wall and held his dagger outward; it was much too small to hold with both hands, but being accustomed to claymores he hoped to scavenge something larger.

Just as he thought this, seemingly as an act of ironic providence, a heretic from the eastern end of the arena slipped past Gar’s blind frenzy, charging at him with a large, rusty axe; the man’s eyes were filled with recognizable apprehension and regret. As the heretic raised his weapon against him, Kamnar struck him low in the abdomen with a closed fist; a splash of the human’s saliva and blood spilled out of his mouth from the impact, and Kamnar took his chance to grab the axe by the handle, forcefully kicking him back and knocking it out of his hands. Kamnar could not suppress thinking how similar that attack was to the one that killed the black orc peasant’s father mere days ago, but quickly shook that grave reminder away; he tried to internalize Eltharion’s advice to focus on his retribution against Durak Bol-gar, other fighters clashing and struggling in the open field. This was not the time to lose himself.

As Eltharion concluded his search for weapons, he heard a loud grunting behind his back, followed by snarling and a rush of hot breath. With a sudden, deafening roar which caused the elf physical pain, Gar leapt out of their cage and made for their enemies. His primal roar had shaken the noise sensitive elf straight to the core and he knelt there, clutching his hands over his ears for more than a few moments until he felt a boot in his back push him out into the arena. "Outta me way, prince!" Griffith shouted as he stomped on the elf's arm and into the arena. Gritting his teeth as his hollow bones flexed under the dwarf's dense weight, the elf scrambled to his feet in a rather undignified fashion and started making a dash for the first weapon in his path. He would deal with the midget later...or perhaps when no-one was looking.

While Gar proved to be an ample distraction, more than a few managed to slip past him and begin attacking the others. A few of the supposed heretics matched with the soldiers who had begun to split off. As a former legionnaire spitted a heretic on the end of his blade, the crowd gave off a mighty cheer. First blood had been drawn. Risking a quick glance back, he could see Kamnar lay a heretic out flat and take the axe he had been waving. Prinny meanwhile had dropped the dagger given to him by Kamnar and was now cowering behind the orc, his hands over his head. Griffith was, as was the usual dwarven fashion, hurling insulted as the nearest group of fighters, daring them to engage him in combat. The others were managing to handle themselves admirable. As his head whipped back forwards, Eltharion barely reacted in time to a sword swing. With reactions born of a lifetime of practice, the elf dipped his head back and watched as the rusty iron blade swept just above his nose in what would have been a decapitating blow. Time seemed to slow as he watched its blunt edge slowly rise over him. He could spot every imperfection, every chip and every spot of rust before time seemed to run back into the proper stream.

Sliding on his knees, the elf leapt back to his feet in time to dodge another blow aimed at his feet, jumping over it as he stumbled back. The human who wielded the blade had a fanatical look in his eyes as he swung again for the elf, who jerked his shoulder back to reduce the downward slice to a light graze on his bicep. This dangerous dance continued as the two weaved around each other, that was, until a sudden force slammed into the human's back and rammed him into the wall. As Eltharion looked back, he could see the man spitted on Hroth's horns as the thunderhoof repeatedly slammed him against the wall, until the sword fell limply from his grasp. Grinding him across the rough surface, leaving a bloody smear, Hroth then use one hand to pull him off and threw him dispassionately to the ground. Looking down to the elf, he snorted. "You owe me," he said simply before rushing back to aid Kamnar. Scoffing, Eltharion dashed to pick up the fallen sword.

Shaking a stiffened hand of off a spear shaft, Eltharion took stock of the battlefield again, making sure than any possible opponents were locked in their own battles. Their group remained mostly unharmed, although Gar looked a little bit weary. The other two factions were beginning to thin out as they fought amongst themselves and Hroth was already beginning to move to Gar's assistance, his entire body slicked with blood, though his horns were positively dripping with the stuff. A small dagger was lodged in his leg, but he seemed to pay it no mind as he thundered towards the bear. Kamnar meanwhile had his hands full trying to fend off a group of heretics who had surrounded them. Griffith was already rolling on the ground wrestling with another dwarf and spitting merry hell as he slammed a fist into the other's shattered nose. Duvain was already springing around the battlefield with a bow in hand, trying to track down any loose arrows, the sloth hanging off her back like a small cape. Hefting the small bounty of weapons under his arm, Eltharion started to dash back, feeling more than a few weapons begin to slip and fall. It didn't matter to him if a few got lost again on the way, as long as he had enough to arm everyone.

A loud clang drew the attention of a few heretics as they looked behind them. They had been so focussed on trying to break through the orc's defense that they had neglected their rear. And now they would pay. Dropping his gathered weapons, Eltharion hurled a single gnarled spear which found a home in the body of a wolfman, but did not piere too deep. However, it did stun him long enough for the elf to reach him. Using his momentum, Eltharion forced the jagged head deeper into the wound before twisting it and ripping it out in a shower of blood. In the same movement, he slashed towards the ground, leaving a long bloody welt down the wolfman's chest who howled in agony. "Gather your wits comrades and gather your weapons. we make our counter attack!" he shouted as he swung the spear out behind him, turning to face another heretic.