Caracas. A familiar city which he has visited multiple times during his travels. Always on business so he could never stop and admire it for what it was, if you managed to look past the dust that is. A pile of fake legends and rotting stone. A pale shadow compared to the fighting arenas back in his home country. The fights were dull and drawn out, most likely decided from the beginning. You only had one capable fighter and the others were meat fodder to raise their fame even more. It made for a great distraction though. All the big crowds swarming the arena stand witness to that fact, the thieves come right second. All those people, the gambling taking place, there was sure to be someone carrying coins with them. The most rewarding place to look would be the big private tents which house the most important people who come to honor everyone with their presence. But a high reward comes with high risks. Few would be willing to risk their lives trying to walk past the guards for a few coins. The general public on the other hand? Easy picking. And as fate would have it, he was deemed an easy picking.

The little thief, no more that 11 years old extended his hand trying to reach for the Tieflings coin purse only to have a big muscly hand catch the kid by his wrist. The kid was scared beyond belief. The least he could hope to get out with was the rest of his body minus the hand. No one really cared for street beggars and thugs, the monk could kill him for all anyone cared. With a finger over the lips, he motioned the kid to remain silent. Taking a few silver coins out of his purse he threw them to the fat guy in front of him, a row lower. Feeling the metal ht his feet he looked down only to spot 3 coins on the ground. With a smile he bent down to grab them, only for the monk to swiftly snatch his coin purse, open it, take out replacement for the coins he tossed and place the pouch on the kid's open hand that he was still holding. The kid, surprised at first, grinned then left running. The fat man now holding 3 extra silver coins, reached to place them in his purse only to notice it was missing. Looking around he spotted the kid running away amidst the seated crowd, yelled at him to stop and started chasing him in a slow run. An empty seat presented itself right where the fat man had gotten up. Stretching his legs, he put them on the open spot and took a comfortable position to watch the fight.

[color=9e0b0f]"Finally."[/color]- he muttered as he adjusted to find a more comfortable spot. With great height comes great discomfort in tight places.

And the winner is the orc. There was no contest really. The orc was bigger and physically stronger. No matter how capable the human was, the difference in the anatomy of the 2 races places him at a great disadvantage to begin with. A big cloud hovered over the fighting pit, pulling a shadow curtain with it as it blocked the sun, setting a grey atmosphere on the arena. Coupled with the roaring of the orc covered in blood and the corpse dangling above him, the setting took a very grim overhaul. Funny how draining the color of a picture drastically affects the ambient and mood. That didn't stop the crowd from cheering though.

Time to move. He had wasted enough daylight as it were already. By the time the cloud passed and light illuminated everything again, Mor'Dor was nowhere to be seen.