I wrote this introduction a while back, but I've decided to go through and complete the whole thing.

The Argonian thrust his sword forward, fighting with an imaginary foe. The iteration ducked and parried as he continued brandishing his sword. He continued to fight until his arms began to feel heavy and when at last he had enough, he called off the iteration and sat down, exhausted, on the cold stone floor.

He laid his short sword, Deathweaver, on the floor and began to get mentally prepared for his match. It began in less than an hour. Soon he'd hear the heavy footsteps of the people of Cyrodiil as they buffeted the steps above his cell. The dust would fall from the stone ceiling as it had always done when the arena filled, and that would be the cue to get his battle raiment on.

He walked over to the only window in his cell, a crude rectangular hole, that gave the room it's little light, save a few candles that flicked dancing lights on and between the rough stone bricks. The rest of the room felt very dark and bleak, but the Argonian had learned to call it home. It didn't feel as comfortable as the Black Marsh in any respect though.

Suddenly the wooden door of his cell flew open, banging against the wall. Two imperials dressed in magnificent golden trimmed armor walked in, followed by a High Elf. The Elf was at least a head and a half taller than the two imperials, and was garbed in extravagant gold robes with various black and crimson streaks that allotted insignias only understood by those who fluent were with the Altmer language and it's customs.

The two imperials unsheathed their swords and held them in a cross, separating the Argonian and the Elf. The Elf put on a smirk, his proud and perfect face devoid of any wrinkles.

"Well then," the elf began. "How's my favorite fighter today?"

The Argonian didn't answer.

The elf cupped his hands together and nodded slowly. "Don't worry, I understand. Even though I'd normally whip a slave of mine who didn't respond to me. You on the other hand, are precious cargo. How does that make you feel?"

The Argonian kept his silence, staring into the Elf's eyes with his masked pair. The elf stopped talking for a moment and stared right back at the Argonians, but after a few seconds they wondered off and he cleared his throat promptly. "Your opponent today is an Orc," he began. "And the damn biggest one I've ever seen. He's around my height, if not taller. He wields a battleaxe called Frostbite. You, on the other hand, are much shorter, have much less muscle, and wield no magical axe." The elf laughed . "You should have no problem taking him out. Go for the legs. I'm sure they are about as tall as you are anyway. I'll be watching you from the stands."

The elf turned to leave, his robes following in full flow. Just as he was leaving the room, he turned back and said, "Oh yes, remember, the bigger they are, the harder they fall. I know you've heard it before, but it is true you know."

The elf cleared the room, and when it was obvious he had left the building, one of the guards nodded at the Argonian and in a deep voice, addressed him. "After you get your raiment on, meet me outside the cell. I'll be waiting to escort you to the Arena,"

By now the dust had begun falling, and the Argonian slipped his green raiment on. He took hold of his sword, and clutched it tightly in his scaly green hands. He stepped outside the cell and the guard noticed him instantly.

"Oh, you dress faster than the rest. Usually we have to force the raiment on you know. You don't look nervous either. Aren't you nervous?"

The Argonian gave the guard a contemptuous dark glare, and the guard stepped back. "Okay, okay, no need to get upset. Follow me."

The hallway outside the cell was long, dark and it's bricked ceiling, arched. Tightly knit doors plastered the walls that led into cells that were darker than the hall. In few cells did beams of yellow light omit through the door's cell bars, though that, along with few randomly spread torches did little justice to the ominous shadows that lingered on the floor and in the crevices of the bricks. The end of hall led to spiraling stone stairs that glowed dim and soft from the light of the arena above.

As the Argonian and the guard passed the cells, their occupants handed out words of luck and encouragement. As they neared the steps, an occupant of the last cell in the hall stuck a scaly hand through three small rusty bars and patted the Argonian's shoulder. Then a raspy and weary voice sounded from behind the door. "Luck to you, Serin."

The guard grumbled under his breath and turned to direct his voice to the cell's occupant. "Oh, still alive I see? Well you should do yourself a favor and drop dead. And if you don't get that grimy hand off of him, I'll chop it off - quick and clean." The guard stressed the end of the sentence.

The prisoner withdrew his hand and the guard signaled to Serin. "Pay no heed to him. He's just another witherer down here. He's pretty much washed up, can't fight anymore. Hasn't been able to for years. I don't know why they still feed him."

Sarin's countenance remained blank, and the guard grumbled and muttered a curse under his breath, as many guards do when they fail to intimidate.

They started up the steps, and the roar of the crowd was beginning to echo softly through the spiraling stairs and the light began to become more vibrant, when at last, Serin was forced to squint as he hadn't seen the sun for nearly a week. The warm light seemed to reflect off his scales, instilling some new energy. He made his way up the steps slowly now, gaining silent confidence with every step.

When he finally hit the top, the roar of the crowd was definite, and the guard stood out of his way. "Proceed."

Before him lie a similar hall in shape as the one below, as it was arched. Though this time, instead of stairs at its end, a collection of adjacent steel poles jutted from the ground vertically at it's end, acting as a gate. The light from the arena blinded the Serin for a moment, and all he could make out at first were the outlines of the poles, though it didn't take long for his dark eyes to adjust to his surroundings. Now he made his way down this final hall, going steadily uphill. The reason for the slight incline was drainage for the blood from the arena, which seeped slowly downhill from the Arena and dripped into the sewage below.

When the Serin at last reached the end of the hall, he had adjusted to the light totally. He looked up into the stands and saw many citizens huddled together in the dome-shaped architecture of the Arena. From his point of view they all looked like one giant tapestry, hung from the tops of the arena that depicted many faces from the different ethnicities of Tamriel, along with vibrant, randomized colors.

Two thick stone brick walls still were on both sides of Serin, obscuring his view of the stands on both sides of him. They were considerably cleaner and newer looking than the cellar's walls or even the hallway's walls behind him.

Serin looked up to a platform at the top of the arena, where the announcer usually started the match. Sure enough, he suddenly iterated, as from thin air, garbed in a simple blue robe, and with a tangly gray beard that hung down to his chest. In his hand he held a crude wooden staff that made a zig-zag at it's top. The announcer rose the staff slowly into the air, and he seemed to be chanting something, as he had closed his eyes and his mouth moved quickly. Suddenly, his movement ceased and he brought the staff down forcefully onto the platform. It made a loud thump which resonated throughout the whole arena, which quickly fell silent.

The announcer looked around the audience for a few moments before beginning. "Good people of the Imperial City, welcome to the arena. Deep, from within the Dragontail Mountains, comes our Champion's opponent today. Clad in the grandest armors, and equipped with a cold axe, he comes to challenge our best. Can Oru the Mighty from the Dragontail Mountains defeat Serin the dark-eyed? Let's find out- lower the gates!"

With that, the iron bars receded into small holes in the ground, and out of the shadows from the other gate appeared the biggest orc Serin had ever seen. The Altmer had spoken the truth. The orc was indeed twice as tall as him, and equipped with magnificent golden armor. The orc was brutish – his muscles looked like giant boulders trapped under his pale green skin; his battle axe was holstered on his back. The battle axe appeared very large, since it was nearly the size of the orc himself. It's handle ended at the top of the orc's head, and the double-bladed edge tip was lined perfectly with his knees.

The Orc's leather boots sunk diligently into the sand as he slowly made his was to the middle of the arena. A single yellow tusk protruded from the bottom lip of the orc's mouth, which was twisted into a smug smirk, as if Serin's size had already assured the orc's victory.

The two finally reached the middle of the arena, which was a large metal circle with one crevice that bordered it and made an intricate cross in it's middle; also useful for blood drainage. Serin looked up to his opponent, but the orc looked ahead, and a dark chuckle escaped from him before he looked down at his opponent.

He fell on his knees and sized Serin up a bit more. "I'll swat you like a fly with the flat of my axe. No one so tiny can defeat Oru-Burog."

Serin sized up his opponent, and looked at his various iterations of scars. All he had going was his size, which was sure to compensate for even the more tactful adversaries. Though, he probably had a weak spot somewhere, and he was in no way going to puncture his groin in order to win. To do such a thing would be dishonorable.

Oru-Burog gripped his axe tight with both hands, and pointed it at the Argonian. "You will die quickly, and I will be the winner."

Indeed, this orc was as stupid as the sand of the arena. He was like most of the Arena opponents Serin faced over the years, and relied on brute force to gain an upper hand. He probably just expected to swing once, and behead; was he in for a surprise. The faintest smile came over the Serin's face.

Suddenly without warning, Oru unsheathed his axe with incredible speed and side swung it as hard as he could at the Argonian with both hands, which threw him off balance. The Argonian quickly ducked and could feel the cut air ripple above him along with a feint wisp of wind that caressed his scales. Oru staggered a little at the force of the swing, and Serin took quick intuitive, rolling out of his ducked position toward Oru and stabbing his thigh with his sword as hard as he could, then stood up behind the Orc, bracing himself for another swing.

Oru turned around, an expression of complete belligerence showing on his face. Oru's wild eyes radiated blood. Snot and spit covered his lips and was dripping down to the sand. Quintessentially, a pissed off Orc.

Again he swung his axe, this time straight down. Serin dodged to the left just in time for the axe to come to a thudding halt in the sand. Oru pulled the axe out, but Serin was too quick. He jumped and swiftly jabbed his sword into his side. Crying out in pain, Oru knocked Serin aside with a quick flick of his bulky arm, who in turn skidded along the sand, head first, until he hit the metal platform in the middle of the arena. Oru ripped the sword from his frame and cast it aside.

Dazed, Serin stood up. His posture wobbled a bit, but he had regained his composure in no time. The armor he wore now sported a huge dent where Oru's elbow had made contact, but there were no obvious wounds or blood.

Oru charged at him, his axe flailing at his side. He swung rigorously at Serin, who dodged to the left. Oru lost his balance with the swing, and fell with a resolute thud on his side, facing away from Serin. Serin's eyes scanned the sand for his blade. When at last he saw it, he felt dismayed; it was all of the way on the other side of the arena lodged half-way into the sand. Serin dashed to the sword, and when he retrieved it,he turned to find that Oru was already up again and glaring right at him. Even from there he could see the eyes.

Oru began sprinting toward him, only slowed by the weight of his axe. Serin suddenly realized that he had become tired. The orc wasn't probably used to fighting for so long. He readied his sword as the orc approached. Oru lunged at him with his axe, and Serin flung the sword, tip first like a spear, then rolled away.

The cheering and hollering in the Arena ceased all of the sudden. Serin quietly got back on his feet and dusted the sand from his shorts. After he saw where the balde had hit, he smirked. The orc was dead, with the bloodied blade itself jutting out of the back of the skull.

A wood on wood snapping sound was heard, and the Announcer's voice reverberated throughout the arena just as it had done before. "And there you have it folks, the greatest Gladiator in all of Cyrodiil, Serin the Dark-eyed! Not one man or beast that has challenged him has been able to withstand his wrath.

Ear-splitting cheering met the Argonian's ears as he began his decent back to his cell, but then shifted to a low roar as he made his way back down the stairs, and then finally it ceased all together.

As the Argonian began to open his cell door, he was hailed.

"You've made me a millionaire!" It was the Elf. He was surrounded by four Imperial Guards laden in the golden armor as before.

Serin turned to meet his gaze and spoke for the first time, a hint impatience and disgust rattled along with his voice. "I've killed the orc. Do what you said you would do. I want to speak with him before he goes."

The Elf appeared lost for a moment, but then smiled a deceptive smile. "Oh yes, the old one." He snapped his fingers. "Bring Serin to see the old one, and after he is done, you are to release the elder outside. Serin is to return to his cell."

An adjacent guard instantly obeyed, running along the corridor and unlocked the final cell nearest the stairs. Serin paced to the door and walked in.

The old Argonian was huddled in the corner. Serin could hardly make out his silhouette. The elder looked up, his dark eyes reflecting the torch light from the hall way. He spoke, his voice hoarse and cracked. "You're alive?"

"Yes, I beat him. You are free," said Serin kindly. He walked over and helped the elder stand.

After he was on firm ground, the elder shook his head. "I might be physically free, but my thoughts will be here, trapped with you. So, I truly will not be free."

Serin walked him over to the door carefully, making sure to support him. "You understand my position. If I escape, I'll be hunted down like an animal just to be caged again. That's all I am to him: An animal. He'll do what he did last time and paralyze me. Damn that Elf."

"Animals roam free, son."

An imperial guard took came up from behind and supported the old man. He looked at Serin. "Go back to your cell prisoner. I'll help him from here."

Serin obeyed, and returned back to his cell. Back to his cage. And as the cell door was shut, locked, and bound, the light from the torch faded, along with the shimmer of hope left in the Argonian. He felt he was never going to be free.