Durnholde Keep, the orc arena.
At six in the evening, every seat around the fighting pit was filled.
Southshore was in turmoil, but that had done nothing to dampen the enthusiasm of duel enthusiasts. Those admitted to the arena were mostly noble scions, local gentry, and leaders of merchants' guilds.
These members of high society had come to Durnholde Keep purely for entertainment.
While enjoying the contest of strength and skill, they could also bet on their favorite gladiators. If their chosen fighter performed well, they could make a little money.
"General, Thrall today..." Drak made his way through the stands and came up behind Blackmoore to report.
Blackmoore took a pocket watch from his pocket and checked the time. His expression unchanged, he said, "Have the soldiers take Theresa to fetch him."
"But... our relationship with Thrall has already reached the point of no reconciliation. Could we try something gentler..."
"You're trying to find common ground with an orc? Don't waste your time." Blackmoore's words were cold and left no room for negotiation.
Drak took a deep breath and turned toward the cells.
"Now, let us welcome this season's ultimate Orcs War God, with twelve consecutive victories in the Arena, the ruler of Durnholde Keep's fighting pit-Thrall!"
As the announcer's impassioned voice rang out, cheers swept through the arena like a tsunami, sending the crowd into a frenzy.
Drak unlocked the chains on the iron cell and rested his left hand on Thrall's shoulder. "Thrall, I'm sorry..."
The muscular young orc did not turn around. He took the battle-axe from Drak and walked toward the arena.
Blackmoore surveyed the arena with satisfaction. The payout odds for a Thrall victory had already approached 1:100.
His impressive record of twelve consecutive victories was proof enough of his strength.
For this final