"Two for Lightkickers vs. Maneating Bonecrushers," Dorden proclaimed triumphantly to the indifferent ticket seller at the Ruins of Lordaeron arena.
"Where's the other?" muttered the undead, glancing to either side of the blood elf.
Dorden turned around with his signature grin and surveyed the line behind him. "Oh, I'm sure there's some nice lady here who wouldn't mind a free ticket." He waited expectantly. No answer. One of these days that line would work...
"Sir?"
"Er...one for Lightkickers vs. Maneating Bonecrushers," he mumbled in defeat. He quickly forgot his disappointment the moment he was inside the arena. Today was the big day, the first battle of the Lightkicker arena team! Dorden was positive them would simply murder the opposing team; after all, the Lightkickers succeeded at everything they tried, right? He shoved and shouldered (in a gentlemanly way, of course) his way to the front of the seating area and stood against the railing. What a sight! The ruins that made up the fighting area surrounded a tomb dramatically placed in the center, and there were even ghosts—fake, Dorden decided, but a nice touch—wandering through the tombstones. The special effects were astounding!
Despite all this, nothing compared to the moment when a voice announced the names of the participants and the two arena teams strode onto the field carrying their standards. At one side a pair of blood elves, brilliantly decked in red and gold armor, bore an emblem of an ornate boot next to the sun. Dorden made sure to boo and hiss loudly as an undead in robes and an extremely spikey orc with an extremely spikey weapon appeared at the far end of the arena. He sneered when he saw their standard: black with a pile of broken bones depicted in the middle. "Completely tasteless," he commented loudly to a tauren nearby, though he could hardly hear himself over the cheers.
Soon his voice had joined the cheering, as loud as any bellowing orc. The battle had begun! Dorden could hardly contain his excitement as he cheered his team on, shouting out advice and swinging his fists (much to the dismay of those standing around him) to show -just how- the Lightkickers should clobber their opponents. Despite Dorden's relentless cheering, the Lightkickers didn't seem to be doing the clobbering very well. The elf leaned against the railing, just in case they couldn't hear him before. "Heal! Swing! Shield! Duck! Do -something-!" he exclaimed, waving his arms.
Unfortunately Dorden had forgotten that this was, in fact, the ruins of Lordaeron. As a rule, ruins are not the most structurally sound placements. Without warning, part of the railing crumbled away and down, down, down he fell, landing with a thump and a collective gasp from the audience. He quickly decided that he never felt more close to death in his life (though that isn't saying much), but he had to admit the view on the way down was quite excellent. A string of muffled curses erupted from beneath him; apologizing profusely, Dorden painfully climbed off the priest from the Maneating Bonecrusher team. Through dazed eyes the elf noticed that both of the Lightkickers were sprawled on the ground a short distance away, and the healers were rushing out to take them off the field. He had little time to ponder this defeat; a swelling chant was beginning to rise from the crowd on all sides.
"Challenger! Challenger!" they yelled, growing louder and louder. Buoyed up by the enthusiasm, Dorden began to bow and wave. What a story this would be to tell to gasping maidens at the inn! It wasn't until a herald's voice rang out that Dorden realized that maybe he wasn't in the best of circumstances. "A challenger has emerged! Sir Dorden Lightkicker of the order of Blood Knights."
"Excuse me, excuse me, sir!" Dorden insisted meekly. "There's some mistake, you see, I just fell off the stands--" But there was no hearing him over the excited roar of the onlookers. The priest glared scornfully at him and muttered to his teammate before limping off the field. The orc nodded and grinned menacingly at Dorden, his daggerlike tusks sticking out horribly. Massive hands shifted their grip on an axe that must have been twice the size of the challenging elf. Dorden realized that his protests were in vain as the healers dragged away the unconscious Lightkicker team and bolted the doors behind them.
There was a fanfare of trumpets as the herald shouted, "The arena battle begins!"
There was barely a moment to think before Dorden saw the mass of spikes and blades and teeth and metal barrel towards him like a rampaging devilsaur. He managed (barely) not to scream, and just as his towering opponent drew near a wall of glowing light surrounded him. The orc roared and began hacking pointlessly at the shield, waiting for it to fade, and Dorden took what seemed to be the most sensible course of action at the time: running as fast as his legs could carry him. Around and around the center tomb he went, with the orc's footsteps fairly shaking the ground just behind him.
With a rush of fear Dorden saw the veil of light around him starting to flicker, and the warrior was only paces behind-- He quickly decided that this was not a good story to tell gasping maidens in the inn. Suddenly he realized that the orc behind him had stopped. From the battle against the Lightkicker team, Dorden realized that he was simply waiting for enough distance to charge at him again, and he felt too exhausted to manage another divine shield. But then an idea came to him--
As legs unused to running began to wobble, Dorden came to stand by the corner of the large tomb. He considered taunting the orc to get his attention, but seeing bloody murder in the fiercely gleaming eyes fixed on him, he decided it was rather unnecessary. He just had to time it right...
Again, the orc charged, and again, the fragile paving-stones in the field cracked under his heavily booted feet. Just at the last moment Dorden ducked around the corner. Just at the last moment the orc swerved in his course to follow. And at the very last moment: CRASH! Several hundred pounds of orcish muscle and tempered felsteel smashed into the the tomb. Stone and dust flew everywhere. The crowd shouted in amazement and disbelief as Dorden brushed the moldy-smelling dust from his clothing and began to cheer. He was so busy bowing and waving and jumping about and blowing kisses that he didn't notice a massive hand swing at the side of his legs. The cheers were silenced by the sound of his head knocking against the stone. The arena healers sighed at each other knowingly and trudged onto the field with a stretcher while the herald proclaimed the Maneating Bonecrunchers victorious.
When he came to, Dorden could hardly contain his disappointment. How could he have lost with such a brilliant plan? Why couldn't he have celebrated just a few more feet away? Why does being knocked unconscious have to hurt so bad? And most of all, why did he attend such a tasteless event such as an arena match in the first place? The other Lightkickers were nearby, heavily bandaged and glaring balefully at him. Dorden didn't understand why they'd be so angry; after all, hadn't they lost just before he made the challenge?
A goblin holding a clipboard grinned up at him. "Ah, looks like you're finally awake. We've been having to hold the visitors off for a couple hours, now."
"Couple hours? I've been unconscious for a couple-- Wait, visitors?" Dorden asked skeptically. "What visitors?"
The goblin waved a hand and a door was opened, letting in a large group of noisy blood elves. They swarmed forward, and Dorden's throbbing head could hardly make out the words that that bubbled forth.
"I've never, ever seen anyone so brave"
"You sure outsmarted that orc!"
"Can I have your autograph?"
Maybe arenas weren't quite all that bad after all.