One woman was late to the festivities that were to take place this day, but that was not unusual. She walked alone, her strides confident and deadly. Her visage concealed beneath the raised hood of her brown cotton cloak. Beneath the shadows she wore a bemused expression. There would be bloodletting today and she hoped to enjoy it. Quietly, this woman warrior made her way through the throngs of people who pushed and shoved for seating in the stands. Somehow, she passed by them and the guard unnoticed. Though, she mused to herself that the mass of people shoving this way and that aided her infiltration. She walked casually, though a skilled eye could tell she dressed for battle. Beneath that brown cloak of hers was a half set of scale armor. …Armor which had endured the testaments of time and trials of battle. She smiled wickedly to herself as she remembered all those who had died upon her armor.

Yet, she was not unarmed. With each easy step, her feet were accompanied by the subtle clinking that the butt of her lance made against the flagstone floor. Her glorious polearm was proudly paraded throughout the underground halls towards the stands above. It was odd that this woman of secrecy, who wished to remain innocuous, would brazenly display such a magnificent spear. Yet, still few took notice to her presence and fewer still guessed at her purpose. Silently, she walked on, her thoughts concerned with the battles ahead of her. As she climbed to the second floor of this ramshackle Waterdeep stadium, she could hear the roar of the crowd in the stands. What fools! She thought to herself cynically. They know nothing of battle – of combat. But, Annabelle knew. Oh yes, she knew. These battles were shams! They were faked and put forth on display for the crowd’s entertainment. The crowd would laugh, they would cry. They would jeer those they disliked and cheer for their favorites. And they would know fear. When their favorites fell, they would know fear.

With soft steps, Annabelle appeared before the archway, her gaze washed over the stands surrounding her and the masses all around. She could not help but grin malevolently as she watched some construct efficiently destroy a group of captive gnolls. But, she was not entertained. When that golem nonchalantly tossed his prey aside in preparation for the fool gnoll’s charge, she was not impressed. There was no emotion in his attacks. There was desperation in the gnoll’s, but the creature had been captive for far too long. It had forgotten how to hunt – how to fight. The gnoll was an easy prey and one not fitting for the construct. She stepped forward, the soles of her jackboots deafened beneath the uproar of the crowd. With each movement, they loved the construct even more. She pitied them. Standing at the edge of the stairs, Annabelle’s emerald eyes surveyed her options. Hidden beneath her hood, she raised a few eyebrows, but not a soul dared to question her.

If she so desired, she could have turned and walked up to the third floor and sat in the crow’s nest with all the poor folk and beggars. But, she was not feeling that so cautious. Sitting so high, also made it harder for her to survey the fights and assess the fighters. She turned her head left, emerald eyes peering from behind the shadows. One person looked up, daring to meet her eyes. He saw nothing, of course, only looming shadows. But, he felt her gaze as it bore into him, swallowing him whole with its intensity. Without a moment’s delay, the fairy looked away. Annabelle scoffed. That man was not a man; mayhap he was closer to a woman! Briefly, she thought about pushing her way past those seated to sit beside him. She thought of how fun it would be to torment him with her presence and aura. Instead, she visibly shrug from beneath her cloak and turned her gaze to the right. Here she found several open seats upon those hard, unforgiving wooden benches. All she needed to do was choose where to sit. But, that wouldn’t do. She was too exposed there. It would be too obvious for someone to notice her. No, that would not do. Not yet. And so, she let her gaze fall beneath her. Several rows down and to her left there was an open seat. Seven persons in, there was a space close enough to the arena below and far enough from the stairs that she could successfully blend in. She made her move. Gliding down the stairs, the mysterious warrior pushed, shoved and excused her way to her destination. Once she had reached her desired seat, she flailed her cloak out about her, set her spear to rest against the bench beneath her and pulled back her cloak.

For the first time in hours, Annabelle breathed easy. Her fiery red-brown hair wafted down to lay about her as wavy strands untangled from the cotton hood. For such a brooding, dark warrior, she was quite pretty. Though, a glance from her quickly changed one’s view upon her. Intently, she began scrutinizing the combatants beneath her. They were all weak, she thought. They looked far weaker than herself, she might add. Even as the announcer took to calling out the first fight of the day, Annabelle was not impressed. Despite the emcee’s attempts at bravado and speech craft, he had failed (quite miserably) to pump her up. All around her, the crowd told a different story. The whooped and hollered for their favorite a local Captain of the town’s Academy and guard. As the man reluctantly met her praise, Annabelle began to doubt her initial assessment. This grizzled warrior seemed different from the others. There was an understanding behind his fiery eyes. One that acknowledge his knowledge of this farce and that he accepted it for what it was. He wouldn’t win, however. His age would see to that, if nothing else.

Next, a short, foreign-looking fellow was called to the fore. With a absent-mindedly curious look plastered across his unassuming face, Annabelle had to wonder why he was even there. His armaments made him a warrior or at least one who knew his way around swords, but there was little else of significance about him. And yet, she knew he would win. The woman shook her head in disappointment, how boring. Moments later, the two men were going at it. Like two caged lions released. Just as Anna had anticipated, the elder warrior proved handy with his lance. He wasted no time by going on the offense so early and because of that scored some early hits. …Though, there was something strange. This ‘Kamubi’… he had no physical injuries. There was no sign of blood loss or even a hint that he was actually injured at all. Reflexively, Annabelle’s jaw tensed and relaxed as she fought down her disgust. So even *this* was staged?! Her emerald eyes darkened as she watched the fight. Though, they quickly rose from the combatants. Without cause, she scanned the arena and everything within. Below her she made note of the archers placed above the pit, ready to strike down any who dared break whatever rules the hosts enforced. To her right, she saw a luxury box, situated directly above the arena and facing opposite of where the combatants sat. There, she knew, was where the affluent and important sat. She knew that they were probably relishing the ideal of an old fashion gladiatorial game.

Growing bored with watching the nobles, Annabelle returned to fight in time to see the smaller, younger and foreign stranger perform his coup de grâce and end the match. She blinked several times as she tried to comprehend the flurry of sword blows and silently commended the swordsman for defeating a much more experienced opponent. Without delay, the annoying grate of the announcer’s voice could be heard throughout the stadium. Annabelle had been there for mere minutes and she could already envision herself murdering this public speaker. Gods damn the bastard who created this magick! How annoying it was to hear this individual from every part of the stands. Even moreso when he intentionally went about mocking the Half-Orc that rose from the combatant’s bench. With a mere glance, she knew almost immediately that he was all strength and no thought. But, it wouldn’t matter. Not with his ancestry added into the mix. It was folly to push a man such as himself to far.

But, the spectators laughed alongside the emcee. Anna even caught the giggle and shake of the Elven girl’s head. What folly! Alas, Anna wasn’t about to do anything. She sat there, silent and brooding to herself as she watched what was to come. Surprisingly, she felt nothing for the Half-Orc’s plight. If he possessed even an ounce of self-worth he would feel shame. If he wished to truly show himself better than his Orcish father he could not succumb to his blood rage. Yet that might be his only saving grace. What a bind to find oneself in. What followed was to be expected. Elves were reputed for their grace and dexterity and this Elvish girl had ample to spare. Annabelle watched disinterestedly as she easily sidestepped, dodged, and otherwise made a fool out of the barbarian. What a shame, she thought. Soon the bitch will push him too far. As she shook her head, she dropped her gaze to look upon the fans below her. She watched as they mocked the Orc and cheered for the Elf. Disgust filled her eyes and clogged her throat. How easy it was to control the mob. She shook her head and returned her gaze to the fight.

The Orc charged and missed with his obvious assault. A cloud of dust formed about the two and when it settled, the Elf had scored two direct hits to his throat. Normally, they would have been fatal wounds that would have killed him before he’d even hit the ground. How foolish of the Orc to leave himself so open. Annabelle shook her head again. What a shame. She then watched as he recovered. Abjectly, she watched his hopeless attempts to pull victory from the jaws of defeat. She watched his anger bubble and rise as his humiliation soared. How much more ridicule could he endure? And then, he reached his limit. Releasing his axe, he charged her with bare fists. Because she thought this match over and victory in her favor the Elf lowered her guard. The stupidity of her error would never be forgotten. Within seconds he was upon her and threw a vicious jab that sent her flying. With raw strength and momentum behind him, there was no chance for her to block or evade his assault. She soared back before skidding across the sand like a rag doll. Annabelle grinned broadly. Good for you, Greenskin. Good for you. The match over, ending in the Half-Orcs favor, she watched him walk over and paint the girl in what appeared to be inkmosse. She was impressed by his style and sense of humor. There was no way anyone was going to take his upset victory from him now. But, still, she did not linger on the Greenskin’s fight for long. There were others to be had as well as other things to worry about…