"What do you two think you're doing? If you're going to kill each other, do it in the Arena so that the crowds can see you. Besides, The Red Room has to be decorated with blood from a match, not a quibble."

The Red Room was the home of the combatants. It was there that they ate, slept, and trained. The room got its name after the first fight to commemorate the opening of the Arena when a demented Argonian went up against a homicidally insane Orc in a death match. Needless to say, the Orc won the fight and proceeded to decapitate its victim. The blood from this ordeal poured down through a vent in the middle of the ring in generous quantities. The blood hit the ground and splattered all over the walls. It eventually dried and has remained there, unwashed to remind the combatants never to fight a crazed Orc.

There then became a tradition for the victor to sneak into the carcass room and remove a limb from the body of the opposing combatant using a ceremonial knife hidden under a stone tile near the pen where Owyn kept the Arena pet hog, Porkchop. The victor then had to proceed to wave it around in the Red Room so that the blood hits the walls. You were to do this at midnight so that the Blademaster and Battlematron would not find out. Ander had a particular dislike for this practice and used a wineskin full of chicken blood and a filthy old rag for his share.

"Er… w-we were j-j-just settling a… d-dispute over w-who got the l-last bottle of wine, s-sir." Ander tried to lie.

"So the elf was going to stick you because you were preventing him from getting drunk? What a silly thing to kill for."

"The primate lies!" the Dark Elf hissed from across the room. "He dishonored my family! And everyone knows that such an offense is punishable by death!"

"Yeah, in Morrowind, you fool! Learn what the laws are here or haul your ass back to your sluttish mother!" Ander sneered.

This caused a massive reaction the elf. He turned a dark shade of black and began to sputter in undiluted rage, all the while collecting a repertoire of a training war hammer, a claymore, his knife, and a battle ax. Gro-Malog took a sharp intake of breath, chuckled a little at the well deployed insult, and immediately stepped between the elf and Ander.

The elf was absolutely blind with a killing frenzy by now. Starting to shriek in incoherent Elven, he grasped the claymore and the dagger in one hand, the claymore sticking out of the top of his fist, the knife sticking out of the bottom. He did the same with the war hammer and the battle ax in the other hand. He lunged at Ander with the intent of cutting, hacking, beating, slashing, pounding, pummeling, crushing, chopping, and flaying him until he was nothing but a pile of gelatinous substances that used to be skin surrounded by a puddle of blood. But fortunately for Ander, who was paler than a ghost with terror, Agronak was faster.

Agronak grabbed the elf by his hair, threw him to the ground, and stood on his chest to keep him from moving. He then hit Ander square in the stomach, causing him to sail tree feet away and smash into a stone pillar that supported the ceiling. He slid down and hit the floor, unconscious. The Dark Elf squirmed under Agronak's booted foot, trying to break free and mutilate the unconscious Imperial and drink his blood, such as the custom of his ancestors. Sighing, the Orc swiftly depressed his weight from the elf's chest and kicked him hard in the temple, knocking him out, too.

Ander woke up several hours later in a daze. Reaching up to rub his head, he was alarmed to find that he could not raise his hands past his forearms. Looking down, he saw that his hands were tied to some form of grated wall by thick ropes. Closing his eyes to stop the room from spinning, he felt something cold and wet rub up against his hand. Turning around as best he could, he came face to face with Porkchop, who apparently was having severe gastro intestinal distress, for as soon as Ander beheld the wee beastie, it immediately released a massive belch that smelled like low tide in the Waterfront District Latrine Area.

Scooting to the right to avoid soiling his breeches with fresh vomit, Ander looked up, tasting bile, and was surprised to see the Dark Elf tied down onto a table while lying on his stomach with one arm dangling off of the side of the table. He was glaring at Ander with a gaze that was dripping with loathing that if a look could kill, he would have been no more than a pile of dust. Upon seeing this, Ander tried to rise to his feet very slowly to avoid falling down hard on his rump. Upon reaching the squat position, he let his head slump down from the physical exertion. It was only when he did this did he notice a note on the ground reading thus:

Idiots,

Due to me being so kind to murderers and provokers, I have not informed the city guard of what has transpired. You can thank me later. I am sure that you have discovered that you are restrained by now, and being again so nice to you two morons, I have placed you both within reach of the knife that we use for our victory bloodbath. I certainly hope that you will know what to do.

But, to reach said means of escape, you will need to work together. There is a broom, a set of calipers, and a ladle within reach of the elf. And for you, Imperial, I was again merciful. Your left restraint has been cut around the midsection.

I sincerely hope that you two will have enough brains to be able to escape, because the Arena is closed for a few weeks for refurbishing, and it's gonna be a long time until you get some food. Remember: failure means death!

Have fun and don't die,

The Grey Prince.

"Perfect! Just absolutely bloody perfect!" groaned Ander.

"Quit whining and listen, you ox," said the elf in a voice used to talk to a child. "Even though we have to work together, do not EVER consider this an act of kindness from my part. Here is what we must do: I will grab the broom and hit the calipers towards you. Cut through the remainder of the rope, grab hold of the handle of the broom, and I will pull you towards me. Place your feet against the grating of that foul little bastard's cage and grab the ladle. Hit the corner of the tile about 3 tiles away from me and grab the corner of it with the indent of said ladle. Pull it off and I will be able to get the knife and cut our bonds. Agreed?"

"I see no other alternative. Agreed." said Ander.

And so, the elf stretched his arm as far as it would go and pulled the broom handle towards him using his fingertips. He then established a firm grip on it and swung it over to the calipers. He then mustered a bit of his store of strength and knocked them towards Ander. Ander stuck one of his feet out from under him as fast as he could and re-established his weight on his one leg. Scraping the heel of his boot against the ground, it soon came loose and was removed by a swift whack from the broom. Flexing his toes, Ander stretched his leg and scooted the calipers over towards his hands. He was able to slide his arm down far enough to grab the calipers and work through the rest of the restraints.

Once the rope was cut, the elf swung the broom over to Ander, making sure to hit him in the head. Snarling, Ander took hold of the broom and locked his arm into place, pressing it tight against his side. The elf looked at him, nodded, and mustered all his strength into his arm. Ander felt himself being pulled slowly, but surely, away from his wall. He then took a deep breath, held it, clenched his sphincter, and leapt horizontally and planted his feet against Porkchop's container. Exhaling, he looked up and saw the ladle under the table.

Sighing, Ander reset his footing, stretched out his arm, and grabbed the steel ladle. Counting the tiles away from the elf, he saw that one of them was loose and worn down more than the others surrounding it. He knew that that one was the tile he was aiming for, so he raised the ladle up over his left side and brought it down as hard as he could. Steel rang out against stone and the tile shot up three feet into the air, landing with a clang some ways away. The elf raised his eyes in approval and tossed the broom away, reached down, and grabbed the handle of the rusty blade. The knife was in such bad condition that Ander was afraid that it would not last for the both of them and decided to replace it with a new one once he was out of this predicament in case he happened to be in it again.

Laughing with success, the elf swiftly sliced through his restraints as if they were scrib jelly. Standing up, he meandered over to Ander and threw the knife at the rope that was holding him. The rope immediately cut and the elf extended his hand to help Ander up. Ander smiled to himself and took the hand. Grunting, he got to his feet and patted the elf on the back.

"We work well together," Ander said, "Maybe we could win a match together sometime."

"Maybe, my friend, maybe." The elf said in replied.

"So, what is your name? You never really said." asked Ander.

"My name? Oh… it's Dramerhiel. I think I got some Nord in me. Disgusting beasts."

"Dramerhiel, eh? Hmm… Well Dramerhiel, I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship. Shall we get some food? I hear that The Feedbag is having a sale, so…"

"Ah, what the hell. You're buying."

"Fine."

The two made their way up the stairs, out the door, past the Gatekeeper, and to the Market District. Upon entering The Feedbag, they bumped into no one other than Owyn, the curmudgeonly old Blademaster.

"Where in Oblivion were you two? So help me Akatosh, if that Red Room is a mess when I get back there, you both will fight together in two four on two death matches!"

And with that, Owyn stomped out of the restaurant in a huff.

"Ander, please tell me that you have enough money for a large meal. I always promised myself that I would make a pig out of me for my last meal on this plane of existence."