When he was far younger, in a different time, he had watched animals fight. The Wood Elves of Valenwood generally preferred to protect their forest and its inhabitants, but in every group there are those that are less than savory characters. Using their innate ability to influence the minds of beasts, a handful of entrepreneuring mer had set up a series of vicious fights between local wildlife. Massive bears, with claws capable of tearing a man apart, crumpled under the weight of wolves the size of hellhounds. There was no greater thrill than throwing septims at the master of the fight, screaming your bet on which beast would win. 

	That was what he saw now. There was no rhyme or reason to the fighting. No well-calculated movements to end the combat. It was brutal. It was animalistic. It was furious. 

	Eights damn him, it was entertaining. 

	The two masses of flesh hammered at each other. Struggling in the rain and illuminated by the occasional flash of lightning, they looked for all the world like two gods. Immortal beings locked in an eternal struggle, refusing to back down until everything but themselves had faded away. 

Then, with another flash of lightning, they lost their footing and fell into the mud, Dwarven greatsword sliding away. But the fight didn’t end, they simply continued, globs of mud and dirt flung into the air while they grappled. Wolves tearing at each other, refusing to end until jaws were clamped viciously around the throat. 

	The gladiator was up first, his short sword gripped tightly in his hand. Blood ran freely down the Argonian’s face, washed away by the torrential rainfall. It looked as if that was the end for the poor orc that still lay in the mud. However, to his credit, the Argonian merely brought the blade to the side of her head, intending for a non-lethal victory. 

	It should have ended there. But out of the corner of his eye Valsiore saw a figure, full sprint, run towards the fight. The other orc, the male, threw himself onto the gladiator, screaming, desperate for revenge. Most of the words were lost in the roar of the storm, but the elf heard something about the lizard killing the woman orc. 

	She was up in a moment, removing the younger Orsimer from the Argonian and trying to calm him down. He was lucky the gladiator didn’t split open his stomach and spill his insides onto the muddy ground they stood upon. A second fight was avoided, and the group approached Marassa, who had made her way out into the storm.

	Hood still over his head, the High Elf made his way over to the four of them. 

	“Get these armour pieces off so I can work on your wounds,” Marassa said. She looked at the Argonian, who had taken his fair share of damage despite being the victor in the fight. He looked less appealing than before, which was quite the achievement, but none of his wounds looked particularly life threatening. 

	“I can help Wets-His-Blade,” Valsiore said. “I’ve got some skill at healing.” At the lizard’s approval, he would help him out of his armor and start closing the worst of the wounds.