The sound of harsh knocking on a studded, wooden door lingered in the air, awaking someone that was inside of the room. Paired with these, a gruff voice demanded, “Get out of bed, lazychops. You have a match in fifteen minutes, and if you don’t get out now, you’ll feel my sword flat again!” The man laid in his bed, eyes staring thoughtfully at the ceiling, blank as a sheet of paper. Sluggishly, he began to stir from his previous stature, rolling up into a sitting position. That was when he realized how shoddy of a room he was in. It was dark and dingy, one very small, barred window closed to the ceiling on the far wall for lighting, and cold, stone flooring that was chipped and cracked in many areas. The entire room smelled like sweat and blood, a very bad combination if you had to live there. The grimy excuse for a bed that he was sitting on was utterly filthy; stained in countless areas to a dark shade of sea green, which was very unpleasant to look at. It was laying on the floor, meaning that they probably just tossed it in and expected him to sleep and live content.

Close to the door was a chipped plate with what he was expected to eat, along with a dirt-encrusted glass that had some sort of liquid in it that looked none-too-appealing. How he survived as long as he did was unknown to him, or anyone else. It must have taken a lot of endurance and natural toughness to survive in these living conditions, but by the Gods he did it. As he began to stand, his aching bones pained him, but he didn’t seem to show any signs of it. He stepped forwards a few paces, stretching out in the cruddy excuse for brilliance given to him. Now, his body could be seen, which might not have been a good thing. The man’s skin was tanned, but could not be seen under a heavy shade of grime and dirt that had accumulated over time. Splotches of dried blood could be found, and scars and bruises adorned his entire body from past matches. He had a scruffy beard that reached from ear to ear, and unkempt, short black hair to match. His eyes…they used to be a down-to-earth brown, but lately have begun to get different, and at times, could even be crimson. One long scar was brandished from above his left eye that trailed down to his cheek from the epic battle that he was captured within.

This man was not one to usually be trifled with; his name was Furion, the Warloving, and his subtitle explained him well. He was expected to fight at least three long, cruel matches every day, sometimes going as many as six or seven if a lot of people want to see him fight. Despite all of his matches and tournaments, he still is undefeated, his movements so fluid yet powerful that he can dodge many of his opponents attacks and then strike precisely to take him down. Today, he was promised that he would be given an advantage, as his opponent was going to be hard even for him, and that he wasn’t supposed to die yet, because he made a lot of revenue for the battlestand. As he began to walk towards the wall to his left, he made no notice to the flooring that was continuously cutting his feet; the sharp, jutting chips embedding themselves in the fighter. Hanging from a rusted nail in the mortar of the stones was the sheathe for his sword, which he feebly took off and attached to his leggings. Next to them was his shortsword, jutting hilt-out from the mortar as well.

Furion grasped the handle and heaved, it reluctantly coming free of its makeshift sheath with a light, suction-like noise. The dim brilliance bounced was now a tad brighter, meaning that too much time had gone by and that he needed to hurry before he was beaten again by Stone, basically the ‘bouncer’ of the battlestand and the one to administer punishments. The blade’s edge was still keen, regardless of all of the use that it had seen. Blood was literally stained on it, along with the dirt and grunge from the mortar that he was supposed to use. With that, he shoved the blade forcefully into its sheathe and walked towards the door, waiting to be let out, as they didn’t trust him with a blade when he could get out when he wanted to. The wooden door was probably the only thing in the room that didn’t need to be replaced, as it was still in pretty good condition. As he stood, Furion contemplated on whether or not to go through with what he dreamt about. He dreamed about freedom; the ability to roam wherever he felt so inclined to go. He imagined himself, relaxing in still grasslands as the breeze coolly kissed his skin. However, this could never happen if he did not get away in the first place. His idea was to lure his opponent over to the entrance and kill him quickly, to run out of the door and away from all of this.

Suddenly, the door opened up sharply to the outside. Furion stepped out, looking around to try and catch a glimpse of his tormentor, Stone. Just like all of the other times, he was no where to be found. The extreme brilliance blasted forth and pelted into him, temporarily blinding him, as he was not used to it in his damp, prison cell-like room. His first instinct was to pull to the right, away from the battlestand, but he restrained himself, as it was not the time for it yet. He weaved in and out between spectators that were visiting the many different vendors in the alleyway that led to arena and the grandstands. Some people attempted to talk to him but soon left him alone; afraid of what he might do with that sword of his.

His eyes… They were piercing and glaring, awaiting the first glimpse of his opponent.
His tongue… It flicked in and out of his mouth, excited for the blood that is going to be shed.

Furion’s head didn’t move, his gaze just drifting further up as he trailed forwards and towards the arena. Now, people had started moving out of his way, afraid of what he would do in one of these moods. His left hand was clenched around his sword handle, ready to use it at a moment’s notice. The icy grip of fear left Furion unfazed; which made sense because it was not fear that gripped the warrior, only restlessness; a heightened sense of the things to come. The sand parted beneath his feet, seemingly remembering what he had done to others. Soon enough, he reached his destination, the gates. However, there was someone standing on front of it… He was at least seven feet tall, probably weighing in somewhere from 250 to 300 pounds, a lot of it being muscle and sinew. His skin was heavily tanned, and scars adorned his body as well, the most noticeable one actually going through one of his eyes, making the pupil white for one reason or another.

“Stone…” Furion uttered to the man, recognizing him instantly, as if he had known him his entire life. The man responded back in his gruff, commanding voice, “Furion, these are yours… Don’t die today, you have much in store for your future.” No smile was brandished on his face, only a scowl. With that, he stepped aside, and behind him were things that surprised even the Speyrn. Lying there was his old, Speyr-style spear, leaning against the gate. Atop it was his helmet with the very scratch over the left eye that was on his face. On the ground next to the spear was his bronze shield, in its same luster. Before he could thank the man, he was gone, probably still scowling. Furion stepped slowly up to them, and gently lifted off the helmet, running his fingers over the grooves and edges, remembering so much from the past. Furion put it on his head, the cool metal hugging his skin just the same as all of those years ago. He reached down and grabbed the shield, strapping it onto his arm. It was heavy, but not too heavy for him. He knocked on it, probably making sure it was the same shield. With his shield lifted and his helmet adorned on his head, he grasped the spear shaft and lifted it up, testing its weight experimentally. The grip of fear had now abandoned him, restlessness taking up the entire of his attention.

Wurzag had not fought in the Battle-Stand since his fateful confrontation with the chaos warrior. He had been busy, or at least that was what he continued to tell himself. Now however, with Taryn's lich slain and with precious little to do, the half-orc found himself gravitating back toward his former place of employment. Plagued by increasingly disturbing dreams at night and restless during the day the green-skin was maddeningly without purpose, but could not ignore the nagging sensation that something of awesome significance lurked right beneath his nose. Today however he needed coin and the only way Wurzag knew to make money was by fighting, and fighting meant the Battle-Stand. He stomped his way through the main entrance and up the central booth where he took great delight in the grimace of the rotund little treasurer.

"Ah, Wurzag," the man said, a few beads of sweat already gathering on his brow, "such a, ah, pleasure to see you again. I must admit that after our last little, ah, misunderstanding we would not be seeing you again." The half-orc said nothing, merely grinned nastily at the squirming fellow, "I must say you are looking well and, ah, remarkably successful given your fine attire. Am I to believe then that want to get back into the 'entertainment' business?"

Wurzag grunted, "nah, akshully I is just lookin' to get meself a few coins, bit down on me luck at da moment an I needs some beer money." The half-orc shrugged, armour jingling in time with the gesture, "but none ov your funny business aright? If I walks out der an der is some crazy armoured knight wiv an axe I is gonna come back out 'ere an kick yer 'ead in meself right?" The treasurer shrank back into the booth as the green-skin loomed over him, "right?!" Wurzag repeated emphatically.

The little man nodded frenziedly, his many chins wobbling like a fleshy waterfall, "but of course my, ah, green-skinned friend, of course, I would not dream of doing anything like that again. It is unprofessional. No, no, no, we have something much more in your field of expertise, a human actually, but a surprisingly persistent one, undefeated so far." Wurzag nodded slowly in appreciation; he had a healthy respect for arena champions.

"An dis is gonna be a blood match right? None ov dis deaf match crap dat yooz dropped on me last time?" The half-orc narrowed his eyes.

"Absolutely not! Your pay will be the usual and I expect to see you in the arena in say, ah, half an hour yes? Yes! Good! Off you go!" He waved Wurzag in the direction of the cells and returned to the important business of balancing the books. The half-orc huffed and stomped off toward the little waiting-rooms where gladiators were allowed to prepare.

A half hour later and the green-skin stood in front of the massive grating that served as an entrance to the arena. He could not remember how many times he had stood before it in the past, waiting for that brilliant moment when the barrier swung back and the noise of the crowd broke over him. They never cheered for him, he knew that, but there was something powerful in the voice of the mob, the way it rose, lifted you, exalted you, gave you that sense of immortality, that you could do anything just so long as you kept fighting. It was muted now, dulled by the thick beams of wood that separated him from sand and sunlight, but he could feel it, like a tectonic rumble just on the cusp of hearing. Wurzag stood, waited and listened; the thrum of the mob pulsed through the stone, motes of dust hung in the twin shafts of light that pierced the gloom and the smells of sweat, leather and tin filled his nostrils.

The time had almost arrived.

Silence.

For a single, perfect shard of time the world stood still.

And then with a groan of gears the gate thundered aside and the noise rushed in. Wurzag pulled his sword from its scabbard and jogged out into the sun. The wild enthusiasm of the crowd was not directed at the half-orc, it was simple excitement, anticipation of the contest to come that gave the spectators their voice. Resplendent in his armour and with the freshly raked sand beneath his feet the green-skin stood and waited for his foe.

Under ordinary circumstances, Termáre Dagor would have been the last place one would have looked if they were seeking Aloric. The bloodshed, the fighting, the slaying and the boasting, all of the above were character traits that the ranger not only didn't embody, but he found them completely distasteful. What would make a man want to take another's life? And what would make a man think to turn a profit on it? And what would make a man want to sit in a stadium and watch it happen?

All of these were important questions, but the ranger didn't have time to ponder the answers. He was too occupied sitting in the stands that were overflowing with action addicts, hungry for a good fight. One fervent fan was so enthusiastic (or perhaps just greedy) that he wildly encouraged the others around him to participate in the betting that he had set up. "Biggest fight o' the year!" he bellowed loudly to his fellow enthusiasts. "Wouldn't want to miss out on the opportunity of a lifetime! Place yer bets now!"

The activity seemed savage, but it piqued Aloric's interest. Another gambler stood up and waved a wad of money in the burly man's face, proclaiming "I've got twenty gold crowns says the Warlover meets his maker!"

"I'll take that bet!" another cried out. "That's almost thievery! Furion's on a winning streak!"

Indeed, it seemed like many of the people in the crowd were here because of one man: Furion the Warloving. Whether to love him or hate him, he had attracted the attention of many a fan either waiting to celebrate his next victory or be treated to the spectacle his downfall was sure to be. But that wasn't what brought Aloric here.

It would seem that fate had decided once again to place the ranger in the servitude of a less than honorable gentleman. Mysrin Delongier had managed to save Aloric's life in the past, but now he was paying dearly for the mercenary's so-called gratitude. He had been asked to carry out a series of errands for Delongier, errands that included shady deals, treasure hunting, grocery shopping, and other adventures of peril. He had failed most of the deeds he had been sent to take care of, and Mysrin was growing impatient. Realizing the ranger wasn't worth the time it had taken to save his life, the mercenary gave him one of the easier missions he needed accomplished. He needed to hire a henchman. He had caught wind of a certain professional gladiator that had taken up nearly permanent residence in Termáre Dagor, the Battlestand of Lómëdor. It wasn't Furion, that warloving superhuman: Mysrin knew he wouldn't be able to get that man to cooperate and take orders. And it wasn't that half-orc either, that Wurzag character - he was either too stupid or too drunk to follow any given orders.

No, the man Delongier was looking for was a man of a different breed, a sophisticated and smart body builder that knew how to throw his weight around and knew how to make people listen. Toland Rush'skore would be the perfect addition to the mercenary's little troupe, and that's why he had sent Aloric out to the battlestand to fetch him. Which was precisely the reason why Aloric was scared out of his mind. And Delongier called this one of his "easier" missions. Hogwash. He had to locate a trained killer in a stadium filled with bloodlusting maniacs and somehow convince the man to follow him out of the fight pit and to a mercenary. As far as Aloric was concerned, it was a fool's errand. But Mysrin was on his last nerve with him, and he didn't have very many chances left to prove his worth before the mercenary deemed him unfit for further existence. He had to give this his best shot.

That's when he thought he spotted the man, Toland, pacing just beyond the gate where the competitors would enter from. His description matched perfectly with what he had been told, but he couldn't be sure until he confronted the man. A lot of these slayers looked exactly the same. But how was he supposed to get in there? Surely they had restricted access only to the few who had business being there, and that short list of stadium workers and fighting gladiators did not include Aloric. He'd have to fabricate a story.

He quickly made his way down the tiered stadium seating and reached ground level, followed the path to the gate, and mustered up all the purpose and courage he could. He didn't give the gatekeeper a second look as he sweat his way through, and for whatever reason, the muscular man didn't question his presence there. Relieved, he sauntered his way through the throes of tournament organizers and men awaiting their turn in the ring. Suddenly, someone grasped his shoulder.

"'Ey you! Ye better get back to your post, the beasts are actin' up!"

"Eh?"

"Your tigers! They must be gettin' hungry, and it's about time for Furion's match to start, you whelp! Get out there!"

"I'm afraid you've mistaken me for some-"

"Yer the animal handler, now get out there and sic 'em on the fighters! Or you don't earn your wages."

Clearly something was amiss. He racked his brain for some excuse, any excuse, but he soon found out that there wasn't much in his brain, and he had been bested by this brute. With a worried frown on his face and a look of confusion in his eyes, he let the man lead him to his "post".

Which just happened to be underneath the fighting ring.

A roar came from just up ahead as he turned his head back towards the burly man that was leading him this way. Was he sure what he was doing? Probably not. But what else was new? Soon after the roaring had been heard, the beast responsible for it came into view. A fully grown tiger, untamed and vicious, black stripes marred across the bright orange body. And it didn't look happy.

"Wait 'ere till they raise the pit doors, then do yer thing!" Then the man disappeared as quickly as he had come, shut a door, and left Aloric to "do his thing".

Eh?

Furion grinned ominously, just waiting for the gate to open so that he could get in at his opponent. He had been undefeated with using just a sword, so just think how good he would do with his old spear, shield, and helmet back! He ran his fingers along the shaft and blade of his now primary weapon, memories coursing through his subconscious. It was at that time that the human warrior remembered what he had enjoyed for his entire life; what he was built for; war and violence. His body was extravagantly toned from all of the physical labor that fighting so many battles put him through, he had strength beyond that of a normal man, or at least that was how it seemed to most audience members. His shield was very heavy and powerful, but could easily be lifted high by him, as was the spear, but he could still hurl it. His feet were still scared and torn from his crudely made cell, and the bleeding had just stopped, luckily. As the brilliance from the burning star in the sky refracted off of his skin, one could not help but notice the countless amounts of battle wounds he had been given, as they seemed almost luminescent.

His eyes were focused, as was his mind, for he would need complete concentration for the battle that was to come. Furion may have been able to get through most of his other matches without very many serious injuries, this one seemed promising. If it was really going to be hard enough for him to get back his best equipment, it had to mean something… Of course, he was never told who or what he was facing, but this time, it had to be something bad… All of these thoughts were issued to the side as the gate swung open, creaking slowly on its rusty, worn-out hinges. Suddenly a wave of noise blasted him, the raving spectators excited for a good fight. A figure was already out in the arena, probably the one he would have to encounter. However, this whatever it was didn’t seem too intimidating from this vantage point; it looking like a sturdy but average man, nothing to be scared of for the great Furion. He had not gone undefeated in his entire fighting career to be frightened of one man that probably wasn’t nearly as skilled as himself. I have this match in the bag… the warrior thought to himself, his egotistical personality showing through.

Furion narrowed his eyes, attempting one feeble last glance at the other combatant before making his first step onto the newly-cared for sand. This match.. It must be important… this would be the first time they had ever tried to make it look nice… he thought silently to himself. The sand slid easily under his foot; but was rather hot from the sun that had been beating down on relentlessly. As he began to make his way slowly to the center of the ring, the crowd’s ranting, raving and betting didn’t cease; on the contrary, it seemed to gain a second wind and blasted away at Furion’s eardrums. The grip on his spear tensed as continued his trek towards the center of the amphitheatre, his gaze never leaving this combatant in the middle that he was to fight. He neared it even more with every step that he made, his arms swinging solemnly at his sides. Furion reared up his spear in an attempt to skewer his opponent before the match started, but decided not to, as he was going to fight this match fair and square, just to prove the extent of his abilities and prowess in battle.

Soon enough, Furion had reached his destination, about ten to fifteen yards away from the other combatant in the match. Now, he finally got a good view of him, and was impressed, not expecting what he had seen. This fighter was taller then the human by at least four inches, and weighed a considerable amount more, by the looks of it. He was probably some sort orc breed, which meant that he was probably strong and sturdy, but most likely not as smart as Furion. An odd sword was brandished in his hand; badly notched and shining. He was resplendent; his armor shining in the Lómëdor sun. Untidy, black dreadlocks hung from his orcish head, not looking as they had been washed in awhile. He could tell that he was strong and tough; his constitution and physical strength exceeding that of Furion. Adorned on his face was a scar that probably would have ripped through a human’s head from his jaw to above his right eye; which easily was larger and more painful then the human warrior’s.

All of this meant that he had either gotten attacked and brutally assaulted, or is and has been a long time fighter; the later of the two more likely. While he assessed the situation, he began to think of different tactics and attacks that he could use to win this fight. He noticed a fatal flaw of the gladiator, however; his sword was substantially large, and probably could not fight well at all in close combat. Luckily, close quarters were for what his sword was made, to slice and dice at his opponents when he is not with spear-using range. These thoughts and observations were abruptly ended as he heard another gate, this one well-oiled, but still noisy. His eyes darted to the right, where a gate was opening horizontally, a deep growling coming from the inside. It was certainly not enough to face a heavily armored and fortified orc with a powerful sword; he also had to square off against some sort of beast that sounded none-too-friendly.

However, all of these odds against him did not scare Furion; his ego could not be easily damaged. He still held his spear and shield confidently, them having a comfortable distance away from his shoulders. His helmet resting upon his head felt familiar, yet foreign, as this was the first time in many years that he had worn it. The growls from the now opened cage had gotten considerably louder, as his keen eyes noticed an outline forming from the blackness from beneath the slits in the iron atop his head. If you were able to see it beneath his lone piece of armor, you would notice that his eyebrows would be raised. Making its way onto the sand was a fully grown tiger, larger then most of them usually were. Fiery-orange fur shined dimly under the attention from the sun’s radiance, with dark black stripes snaking their jagged ways throughout it. Two large canine teeth from the top of its jaw poked out from under the snarling lips, off-white in hue and dripping with clear saliva. Muscles could be found beneath his or her pelt, and it was obvious that much power could be found in its limbs and jaws. It began to circle the two combatants in the middle, savoring the meal to come. Furion stepped back a few steps and dropped down, holding his shield powerfully up to guard his entire torso and thighs, holding his spear up over it, in case he was suddenly attacked by either of them. He was smaller then both of them if the tiger was bipedal, also most likely less powerful then the orc, and slower then the tiger. Almost impossible odds faced Furion, yet his ego was not damaged, and he was not afraid of either of them…

Wurzag watched with interest as the large doors on the opposite side of the arena rumbled open. Instantly the crowd noise doubled, the ecstatic wave of cheering almost creating a palpable wave of pressure that pressed down in to the arena. Clearly this gladiator was popular. The half-orc squinted through the rippling waves of heat rising from the baked sand at the figure that emerged from the shade and began confidently striding toward him. Not only was he popular, he was sure of himself too. The half-orc knew a moment of doubt as the human approached; there was a fine line between confidence and arrogance yet the two were worlds apart. One would drive the man to excel but accept an honourable defeat. The other was likely to make him do something stupid in what was supposed to be a blood match.

As the man closed the distance and his profile was revealed through the shimmering haze Wurzag took a moment to see if he could identify what it was the possessed his stalwart opponent. The man wore little armour, in fact he wore little of anything, his one nod toward protecting his hide an impressively crested helmet. Beyond that simple adornment he was clad only in a tattered cloak that might once have been red and a loin cloth. The effect would have been slightly comical had it not been for the man's impressive musculature, something the ladies of the audience would no doubt appreciate. A leather scabbard slapped at his thigh held in place by tough leather thonging though the warrior currently favoured a long, heavy looking spear. The half-orc nodded to himself, inwardly respectful of the human's obvious talent; he had learned more than one style of combat and that was a feat to be admired. A large, round shield graced his left arm, broad enough to effectively defend a third of his body while simultaneously allowing his to strike back at an assailant.

The man halted a short distance away and looked back at Wurzag coolly.

"Aright der fella," the half-orc said conversationally as he limbered up in preparation for the imminent conflict, "'ow yooz doin'?" Wurzag stretched, rolled his shoulders and swept his sword in a few experimental arcs. "Yooz ain't gonna do nuffin' stoopid 'ere are ya?" He continued after a moment, "only I dunt like doin' def matches so just fight until one of us drops aright?" He opened his mouth to wish the gladiator well but was interrupted by the grumbling of a third gate as it opened into the arena.

He turned to see what the treasurer had inflicted on him this time and made a mental note to personally hunt the little man down and knock his teeth out. A deep-throated growl revealed that the approaching 'warrior' was not even remotely human and Wurzag gritted his teeth in annoyance at the disruption of what should have been a perfectly civilised and humane bout of extreme violence. The sleek, muscular, feline form that emerged from the gloom was anything but civilised, its narrow, green eyes fixed on the two combatants with undisguised hunger.

"Aw! Fuggin' 'ell!" The half-orc spat as the tiger circled, "I'm gonna kill that runty fella when I get my 'ands on 'im." He was now far less concerned about the human and much more worried about the cat. A person could be reasoned with while animals generally lived on instinct and right now the creature was obeying one of its most fundamental drives; to feed. Something small and stifled deep within the half-orc whispered that it was deeply wrong to hurt such a beast, that its condition had been deliberately inflicted by its captors to make for a more entertaining show.

It did not deserve to die.

"Nice kitteh," Wurzag said in what he hoped was a placating voice, "gud kitteh, no foods for yez 'ere, lets take a walk to da nice gate an I'll let yez out, 'ow duz dat sound?" The tiger wouldn't understand a word but it helped the green-skin's fraying nerves and bought him a moment to consider his plan of action.

(If you guys don't want to continue this, that's okay.)

Dumb orc… was all that the stoic warrior could think of at the moment… The combatant that was supposed to be fearsome was trying to talk some sense into the muscular feline, but it was to no avail. The tiger would not be reasoned with, and his mouth parted and cocked upwards to let out a fearsome roar, that left many of the audience members quaking in their boots. This animal had seen many battles and many demises, none of which being its’ own. Furion’s sword lay clasped at his side; unused. It was not a necessity for a Speyrn, but came quite in handy during close-quarters combat, in which the spear was useless. The blazing sun beat down on the three antagonists, making perspiration inevitable. A chilly, yet comforting wind that had blown in from the sea coolly kissed Furion’s skin, as if it were trying to calm him. The sand beneath him shifted and parted beneath his feet… This match had all of the makings of one that would be remembered for ages; in which the Warloving One had his first defeat, or came out on top, one again. His heavy, iron spear was ready for battle; his spear ready for the first onslaught.

It seemed that no-one was going to make an offensive, so that would be entirely up to the human warrior. He gradually began to grow up to his full height, his weapons hanging clutched in his hands. One glance from the orc to the masculine cat reassured him that he had this match in the bag, so to speak. However, the cat was no where to be found, in the time Furion spent strategizing, the tiger had been mobilizing, which was not good for either of them. Another roar sounded from deep in the throat of his instinctive predator from behind him, followed by the sounds of galloping through the sand… The bloodlusting gladiator turned and dropped down at just the right moment, as the full force of the hit impacted his heavy and large shield, which sent powerful shockwaves throughout his body. His seemingly-obsequious opponent was no where to be found by Furion, so this skirmish would be his and his alone. The impact was too sudden for him to brace himself, and he was sent sprawling out backwards into the sand, while the tiger reared itself again, this time with a renewed ferocity.

All time seemed to stop when the tiger leapt at the helpless warrior, now lying on the hot sand. Fortunately, ‘Lady Luck’ was with him and gave him just enough time to use his shield to defend his body. Furion held it close to his torso and launched it off at just the right time, impacting the feline intensely. A yelp sounded, but that would not faze the instinctive warrior atop him, gnashing teeth found their way just over the shield, so that Furion could watch it. Saliva and blood mingled around in its’ mouth as they dripped down and splattered on the human’s face. Apparently his shield blow had its’ jaw as well, which was an added plus. Sharp, retractable claws found their respective ways around the large shield as well, and desperately tried to get in at Furion. He was so focused on keeping the defensive object up, that he didn’t notice one entire clawed-paw go up, and then swing forcefully down at the ‘prey’ beneath. It cut into his side with pain that would shake a mountain; it raked and slashed and cut down through his barren, scarred flesh, which would leave an extreme scar if he ever got out of this match alive, that is. A scream vibrated through his throat and out his parted lips, one that was foreign to him and his audience…

Furion was in such anguish that he couldn’t help himself, and became enraged to try and stop his opponent from becoming even more lethal by hurting him more. He dropped his spear and did the first thing he could think of: he balled his right hand into a fist and brought it back over his head, and then swung as hard as he could at the tiger. It didn’t have time enough to dodge it completely, and it the space right above its’ left temple. Another yelp sounded out from the animal, and it rolled off of him and to its’ right. The human needed no more time and quickly stood up, looking completely unfazed from the dripping wound on his side, even if it burned as much as a thousand needles piercing through a patch of raw nerves on the inside. The feline stalked back to its’ original composure: just circling the two, waiting for the right moment to attack again…

The cat, it seemed, had no intention of cooperating. Wurzag rolled his eyes in exasperation as it lunged for the human gladiator and did its best to turn the fellow into chops. To his credit the man did an excellent job of shielding himself from harm, though the half-orc could not help but notice the dripping wound in his side once the tiger had been successfully repulsed. The green-skin grimaced in sympathy; the animal's claws were as sharp as blades and were obviously hungry for more. The handlers had clearly not been kind to the poor beast for it to be so savage. Wurzag followed the animal with his eyes for a few moments before daring to switch his attention back to Furion.

"Look mate," he grumbled with another quick glance to the cat, "I dunno about yooz, but I dint sign up fer no match with a kitteh. I woz promised a gud clean fight wiv no deaf an no surprises." This was the second time the little treasurer had deceived him and the half-orc thoroughly meant to carry out his earlier threat once he had successfully escaped the arena.

"Now," he continued with yet another wary glance at the prowling beast, "I 'ave 'ad just about as much of dis stoopid arena as I can take so if yooz - " further speech was cut off buy a bestial lunge that carried the tiger directly toward Wurzag's torso. The half-orc did not really wish to hurt the animal, in fact something inside him rebelled at the idea of turning his blade to its demise. It was simply a product of its nature and the abuse of its handlers, though as its jaws fastened on his armoured shoulder he felt a familiar twinge of battle-rage. The black enameled plates of steel groaned in protest under the pressure and Wurzag felt the metal begin to buckle. Then the rest of the creature's weight landed on him and carried him to the ground.

"Luk ye dumb kitteh," Wurzag growled as the tiger strained mightily against his protective sheath, "if yez keep dat up yez gonna get - " He didn't get to finish, several scarlet tinged arcs of lightning jumped from the enchanted mail and earthed themselves directly through the felines snout. The animal yelped and leaped away from what it had hoped would be an easy meal, its fur standing on end and hackles raised. Wurzag got to his feet and dusted himself down with a quick glance to his damaged shoulder plates to ensure that nothing serious had been harmed. Then he shook his head at the snarling tiger and sighed.

"Tried to tell ye," he said with a quirked eyebrow, "but yez just a stoopid cat." Confident that the animal would think twice before attacking him again he returned his gaze to the gladiator. "As I wos sayin' fella, if yooz wanna join me down da pub for a pint den I say we kicks dat door down an let des goons watch someone else get chewed on. 'Ow about it?" He indicated the small door that was commonly used by apprentices for the swift removal of stray body parts and other wreckage that might impede the flow of combat. The portal was secured with a heavy lock, but the half-orc was fairly certain that their combined might would be enough sunder it and set them on the path to freedom.

He watched the man expectantly while the tiger considered which of the two morsels to attempt next.

Furion’s wild eyes darted from place to place, not sure where to settle on. The fresh wound on his side would severely hamper his participation in the fight, so he would have to be careful throughout it. His beard itched, but he did not wish to loose his composure in the fight; as Speyrns were professional fighters, who even in the face of death would look it straight in the eyes without pleading. All of the egotistical gladiator’s thoughts about himself were interrupted when the ‘dumb’ orc attempted to communicate with him, and although his dialect was heavy, it could be made out. “Look mate, dunno about yooz, but I dint sign up fer no match with a kitteh. I woz promised a gud clean fight wiv no deaf an no surprises.” He grumbled it to the human, and it seemed that the audience couldn’t tell what was going on, and began to ‘rant and rave’ about the two of them, wanting to see more action and blood. Thoughts followed this, but of course they were unavailable to Furion. After this, more speaking occurred, which seemed to try and reason with the bloodlusting gladiator.

”Now," the orc continued, with a sideward glance at the instinctive feline who was still stalking, “I 'ave 'ad just about as much of dis stoopid arena as I can take so if yooz -" The other gladiator abruptly stopped as the ‘kitteh’ now lunged at him suddenly, attempting to take one of them out by surprise. Unfortunately, the resplendent armor that he was clad in must have been interlaced with magic, as after he was forced to the ground, the predator atop him pushed him down to the ground. Furion watched steadily as he attempted to hold back his thoughts that were much like that of the human’s. He attempted to reason more with the cat; again to no avail. The hunter kept trying to do his worst to the orc, much like it had with Furion. The armor seemed to have noticed this, and a few scarlet beams jumped from it to the invader, in an attempt to keep it off. A yelp resounded from deep in its throat, and it leapt off of him. The green-skinned warrior got himself up to his feet, and dusted off, and went back to talking with it.

He looked back at Furion, saying, "As I wos sayin' fella, if yooz wanna join me down da pub for a pint den I say we kicks dat door down an let des goons watch someone else get chewed on. 'Ow about it?" His words were foreign to the Warloving One; he didn’t understand their meeting. “Pub? Pint? Are these of the Orcish tongue?” he seriously thought to himself. I detect friendliness, but what the devil is he saying? Does he know that I want to escape from this stand? Perhaps he was from Stone, making sure that I don’t leave… I better play it safe… Furion said to himself, quietly enough to where no one could hear him. He thought that there was treason in his voice, and that he was trying to get the human gladiator to give in, just so that Stone could bear down upon him with his own sword flat again. Then again, this was just a dumb orc, could he even be capable of such intentions? With that, he began to respond, thinking out each word that he was speaking, “So, you are asking me to break out from the battlestand? Does Stone really have to resort to expected treason against him?”

Wurzag kept a wary eye on the stalking tiger as the two gladiators exchanged words. The beast was wary now, it knew which of these creatures was vulnerable and which was protected. It would not wait long before it made a second attempt at a meal. The half-orc returned his attention to the wounded man and considered his words. "Luk mate," he said once the warrior had finished, "I dunt know who dis Stone fella is and I really dunt know nuffing about treason, but I only came 'ere to earn me a few silvers from a straight up fight, not any of dis tiger nonsense. If I wants to leave I'm gonna, an you looks like you cud use some patchin' up an a drink."

The crowd had started to become fractious given the lack of violence taking place in the arena and several of them had begun to yell abuse as well as more substantial projectiles.

"Luk, talk an fight mate, talk an fight, but watch out fer dat kitteh, 'e is 'ungry an I fink 'e 'as got a taste for ye now. If we busts dat door down I reckon toofy 'ere will make a break for it. While dey is all busy wiv da cat weez can just walk on out. I dunt fink anybody will care much."

He made a lazy swing at the human that he was sure the man would parry and then crabbed sideways, away from the circling animal. "Dat door right der ain't nowhere near as tough as da bigguns and I fink yooz an me 'ave got enough punch 'ere to bust it down." He grinned, "yez never know, moggy 'ere might even get to chew on dis Stone fella."

He followed with another languid blow that the gladiator could easily avoid. "'Ow duz dis sound fer a plan? We pretend to do da whole fightin' fing until we is pretty close to da door an de we can both make a break fer it, 'it it on da run." He glanced at the tiger again which had begun to prowl closer. "I reckon kitteh 'ere will follow wivout too much encouragement 'an when 'e comes scootchin' after us we duck out an let 'im do 'is fing." The green-skin chuckled as he imagined the tiger running riot through the tunnels and corridors beneath the Battle Stand. With any luck it would find the little treasurer in his booth and gnaw a few choice cuts off him for its troubles.

"'Ow about it?"