"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. 

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"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.