Of all the races, Moulder favored humans the most. His own kin, the elves, were too self-obsessed to be of any great help to anything. The small races, dwarves and gnomes, were usually gratingly entrepreneurial and hardly ever straight forward. Tieflings and orcs and other beast races... well, where even to start with them? Humans however ran the gamut, philosophically curious by nature and adaptable to many modes of thought. So when Moulder's ongoing quest to understand and control the arcane brought him to the heart of the Caracas League, he was pleased as punch.

Caracas itself was not without charm. It stank—all humans did, though certainly not worse than some others—but the way to the Colosseum offered fine views of old human architecture and breathed a sort of scholarly history. Sure his boots were soggy, his clothes now smelled like smoke (better than the faint sweetness of decay), and the sound of the human being slaughtered in front of a roaring audience was a little disquieting, but it lacked the nauseating pretension and ostentaciousness of a city full of righteous do-gooders who would probably be too happy to kill an undead necromancer.

Still, he wasn't about to sing any heroic tales about himself to anyone here anyway. Couldn't be too careful.

Pausing in his search for Mr. Amarillo de Caracas, Moulder looked down into the fighting ring to behold the great Baenash the Impaler, living true to his monicker. His colorless eyes rested academically on the quickly dying human, briefly wondering at the life he had led which had now brought him to this unfortunate moment. Moulder also wondered how the Colosseum administrators intended to discard the body. He was feeling peckish.

"If I were a League of Magi," Moulder mulled to himself, realigning himself to his task, "where would I be hiding?"

The best seating in the stadium seemed to be near the balconies, where special boxes had been erected for more comfortable viewing. Supposedly Dantel was here, so he'd probably be in one of those. And, if he were using his magic to influence the fight and win some bets (Moulder certainly would), he could do so more privately from there.

Ignoring the jostling and cheers of the crowd around him, Moulder set onward to dip his head into some of these boxes. And hopefully not lose it in the process.