"Are we late? I thought you said nobody came early," Agronak inquired, surveying the packed room. The concentric circles of tables, each ring set higher than the last, were filled with diners enjoying their meals as they watched the entertainment below. The large ring in the centre of the club held two combatants, already well into their fight.

"We're early," Gurak assured him, gesturing to an empty balcony high above the other tables. It offered a commanding view—both of the battles below, and for the others to look up at those on display. "I told you nobody gets here until later." Catching a harried waiter by the arm, he ordered drinks. "It's mead for you, right?" he inquired of Agronak.

Agronak gave a nod. He'd always found it the safest thing to order for consistent quality. Rarely was it a good sign when he had to resort to ale—those barkeepers who couldn't manage to keep a few bottles of mead on hand tended to be the ones to avoid. Or if that wasn't possible, the safest course was to try not to taste too much, at least until the alcohol kicked in.

"These are the warm up matches," Gurak explained, motioning to the fighters locked in a bloody grapple. "The main event won't be for a couple of hours. It's an unusual one...you wouldn't be interested in betting on it, would you?"

"I don't know who's fighting," Agronak replied, watching one warrior stumble, his knee collapsing under a well-aimed kick—a painful injury, and a hampering one.

"Then you'll have to see them." Gurak handed Agronak the mug of mead he swiped from the tray of a passing waiter. Agronak was fairly sure it wasn't the same waiter with whom they'd placed their order, but the Orc didn't protest, merely nodding before turning around to head back to the bar. "This way."

Gurak pressed through the aisles, causing waitstaff and diners alike to stand aside or get knocked down. Agronak stuck close, trailing behind in the gap his friend left,constantly reminding himself while this sort of behaviour would be the height of rudeness in Cyrodiil, it was expected here. At least, he hoped it was...

"Bugrol is the favourite," Gurak explained as he led Agronak into a wide room.

A large, muscular Orc stood on a raised platform, surrounded by curious onlookers and enthusiastic gamblers. Calls and jeers filled the air as the spectators shouted to Bugrol, demanding he jump, punch the air, kick high—various feats to demonstrate his prowess. Agronak had to admit the Orc showed skill, with a lot of power behind his moves.

"What's his record?" Agronak asked, observing as an old lady demanded Bugrol touch his toes, then reach up while jumping as high as he could. It took a moment before he complied, but once he did he moved nimbly enough.

"Undefeated," Gurak grunted, "which is why the payout is two to one on him. He shows promise."

Agronak gave a non-committal grunt as he observed the reactions of the fighter to the crowd's demands. Satisfied he'd seen enough, he asked Gurak about Bugrol's opponent.

"Yambul's an odd one," the warlord replied as they strode down a narrow hall. The scent of sweat, old blood, and victory brought a flood of memories to Agronak's mind. "Lost a few matches to opponents he shouldn't have, but he's worked his way up."

The first thing Agronak noticed was the relative quiet, Yambul observing the sparse group in the room from his vantage point on the platform, ignoring all shouted requests, regardless of how they were presented. The fighter's eyes flickered over the new arrivals before darting to the side, tracking as a couple of gamblers wandered off to the door. The Orc was fit, but small compared to his opponent.

"The payout?" he asked Gurak, studying the warrior critically.

"Ten to one. Not many are taking the bet." Gurak answered with a shrug.

"That's high," Agronak murmured, surprised by the odds. Rarely had he seen payouts of more than five to one, in all his years in the Arena. The last time he'd seen anything so close was a couple of years ago, with Lilia's unusual 'mage' battle. He'd made a good profit off of that match, choosing to bet on her apparent insanity to keep her alive. Even still, he'd only gotten back a sevenfold profit, and that was with everyone convinced she'd lose.

"As I've said, he's lost a few," Gurak reiterated. "To lesser opponents—whelps, grey-hairs, idiots—fighters everyone expected him to win against. Some of the matches were an embarrassment."

Agronak was intrigued. Yambul didn't behave like a nervous underdog, and he didn't have the vain air of a fighter trying to bolster his image and ego with false bravado. If anything he seemed comfortably confident as he looked from face to face. Not cocky—simply assured.

Curious, Agronak walked to the other side of the room, noting how the Orc followed his progress while still keeping track of the rest of the thin crowd. Finding Yambul to be boring, most didn't wait long before heading back to the hallway, a constant motion of people coming in as others left. He waited, leaning against the wall, until a group of chattering new arrivals caught Yambul's attention. With a subtle nudge he knocked over the chair beside him, sending it to the floor in a clattering racket.

As he picked it back up, Agronak pondered what he'd seen, mentally comparing the two fighters in his mind. Years of experience and observation based on his own opponents, as well as the countless matches he'd watched play out on the pale sands of the Arena made him a good judge of talent, while allowing him to guess what might happen when the fighters tested each other's skills.

"Think you know who'll win?" Gurak asked, dark eyes studying Agronak for clues.

"I might," Agronak answered, careful not to give away his thoughts. "How do you place a bet?"

With a hint of a smile, Gurak took him to the group of tellers responsible for taking the wagers. The Orc handling his transaction paused briefly when he told her what he wanted, but she completed the arrangements with discreet efficiency.

The coinpurse Cerisse had given him as 'payment' was considerably lighter when Gurak led him back upstairs, continuing along the winding staircase to the balcony level. A few others had already arrived, busy welcoming each other in loud voices, calling for drinks to the passing waiters. Agronak was pleased to see Ogdum and Khazor, two of the Orcs who'd come down to Bruma with Gurak. They greeted him heartily, with near cringe worthy thumps on his back. Ruefully, he realized he'd probably end up with more bruises at the hands of his friends than his enemies.

"Lord Lovidicus. I hope you're enjoying my hospitality."

Disentangling from Ogdum's crushing grip, Agronak turned to find a very attractive Orc waiting for his response. He was certain they'd never met before, but something about her struck him as familiar. Or maybe he just wished it—she was one of the most magnificent creatures he'd ever seen. "I'm sorry, do we know each other...?"

"Sharm. Sharm gra-Magon," she introduced herself with a bold smile and glittering eyes. "I believe you're staying in my room."

Multiple meanings shrouded the statement, and as he wondered if it would be bad form to apologize for the innkeeper's actions, he enjoyed the thrill of mutual attraction flaring between them. Nothing would come of it—he'd meant it when he'd told Cerisse he didn't share—but there wasn't anything to prevent him from amusing himself with a little harmless flirtation.

She spoke before he could say anything, words suggestive of so many pleasant ideas. "I don't mind. I've already been well compensated for my troubles." She lowered her voice a little, leaning a bit closer to confide a secret, her perfume—an intoxicating blend—transporting him back to the lingering scent in the opulent suite. "And I have every intention of reclaiming that comfortable bed as soon as I get the chance."

"I'm sure you won't have to wait too long," he answered, playing along.

"Sharm." Gurak's curt greeting interrupted their chat.

She turned to face him, her hip brushing against Agronak's thigh. She left it there, contact heat sizzling into his awareness, her casual attitude hiding her thoughts. "Gurak. You must be pleased—two guests to play host to. I'm sure you'll have the staff hopping all night on our behalf." The word, warm and wicked, slipped out from her dark lips. In that moment it was all too apparent who she included in her definition of our.

The warlord stared at her, unspoken messages passing between them, ones that made Agronak vaguely uneasy. If she and Gurak had some sort of history, he had no desire to make it worse, even if he was planning nothing more terrible than some light flirting. But the Orc suddenly laughed, letting out a quick roar to startle the others, before nodding his head at Agronak. "I hope luck's on your side tonight. You're taking more gambles than you realize." His face slipping back into its passive scowl, Gurak moved off to speak with some new arrivals.

"He's never had much use for magic," Sharm brushed away Gurak's statement, turning her attention back to Agronak. Pausing, she blinked a few times, before reaching near the air beside his shoulder."But you must. You've got spirit energy all over you."

"Spirit energy?" he asked, feeling a slightly uncomfortable tug as she plucked one of his fae. The sudden impulse to snatch it back ran through him, but he managed to contain it.

"The basis of any shaman's power," she answered, bringing her palms close together, the trapped fae stuck between them. "You must be familiar with Orcish magic." At his admittance he wasn't, she smiled a contented cat-like smile. "Mmm, then a demonstration is in order."

She stepped back, extended her arms, then began to chant under her breath. It was a different form of magic, not the kind he'd learnt, the undercurrents sharp and biting as they swirled past his ears. A vortex of fiery energy popped into existence between her hands, the spell expanding as she fed it, until dark red twinkles, reminiscent of sparks from a bonfire, orbited around the flaming centre at a dizzying speed.

With a sharp cry she clapped her hands together, sending molten drifts of spell to shower onto the floor, like the cascading flecks from a hammer strike against red hot steel. The wood sizzled as the spell faded away, Sharm watching him with an approving expression.

"Impressive," Agronak offered, still trying to make sense of what she'd done. While it was unfamiliar, he felt the inherent power in her magic, the destructive forces contained within. He was starting to get a better idea of what Cerisse had meant when she said shamans could wield their magic to spectacular effect. Though he was pretty sure she wouldn't approve of Sharm's handling of his fae—he certainly didn't. "But can you do it without stealing the power from others?"

Sharm laughed at the question, a throaty sound evocative of secluded pleasures, before linking her arm in his. The others were seating themselves at the table, ready to begin the evening's feast. As she settled herself beside Agronak, she explained the concept of spirit energy. It wasn't what he expected, the shaman viewing fae not as entities to be respected, but as natural resources to be used at will. "It's no different than burning trees for heat. They grow back in time, and the bigger the tree, the more fuel you get."

"What if you've used all the nearby ones?" he inquired.

"Then you make your own. That's the first thing a shaman learns—how to pull energy from air and stone. There aren't many woods in the Wrothgarians."

Ogdum's clamouring for Agronak's attention stole his thoughts away from magic to matters of recent history. "Agronak, tell this fool," the Orc smacked Khazor hard in the shoulder, pointing out the fool in question, "those rumours of you killing a wereboar are greatly exaggerated."

Recognizing the invitation, Agronak accepted it with a smile. As he launched into his story, he gestured to a passing waiter, indicating he'd need another mug of mead. Recounting tales of battle was thirsty work.

The meal passed in a pleasant blur, Agronak happily sharing stories, enjoying the familiar atmosphere of admiration as those around the table marveled at his continued survival. Sharm occasionally whispered a tempting nothing at him, or let brushing contact turn into lingering pressure. It reminded him of happy evenings spent in the Feed Bag after a triumphant victory, Ilona in one of her better moods, the patrons of the inn generously offering token mugs of ale so they could bask in his reflected glory—even if only for a little while.

The magically enhanced voice of the announcer cut the stories short, the room falling silent as he introduced the two fighters, offering a brief rundown of their statistics before readying them for battle. At his cry of Go! the room exploded in noise, the patrons slamming their fists on the tables while shouting out the name of one of the warriors. Just as the majority of the voices did, those dining with him called out for Bugrol.

"Will you not declare your pick?" Gurak asked, having noticed Agronak's unfamiliarity with the proceedings.

"You placed a bet?" Khazor demanded, looking away from the circling warriors. "Easy money, isn't it? Bugrol's unstoppable."

"I hope not," Agronak answered mildly, "since I bet on Yambul."

The Orc's surprised curse was lost in the deafening roar of the crowd as Yambul dodged Bugrol's powerful swing, the warrior's heavy warhammer missing by less than a hands-breadth. But Agronak knew it didn't matter how close a miss was—so long as it failed to hit, that was all that mattered.

Yambul's strikes, while not as powerful as his opponent's, made contact again and again. The Orc used a cunning strategy, waiting until Bugrol, far slower by comparison, had committed his body to a course of action before seizing the opportunity to get in a hit, no matter how minor.

While Agronak watched the match play out as he'd expected, Bugrol's slow reactions woefully inadequate to handle his opponent's ever changing patterns. Agronak noticed Gurak studying him from time to time. He couldn't help giving the warlord a smug grin, especially when Bugrol went down, knocked out by a glancing blow to the temple. It was not a particularly well placed hit, but in combination with the beating the Orc had already sustained, it was enough.

"I'll send a runner to pick up your winnings," Gurak said, putting his hand out for Agronak's betting slip. His eyes momentarily widened when he saw the amount, before he barked for a passing waiter to take it to the tellers as fast as his clumsy feet could carry him. The Orc ran off immediately, leaving Gurak to continue studying Agronak. "You were...sure of your bet," he searched for the word, clearly trying to find a polite way to express his surprise at Agronak's large wager. "How did you know?"

"I've seen it before," Agronak replied, answering Gurak, but addressing the table. The others were also intensely curious at his apparent ability to predict the future. "It's a rare strategy—most warriors have too much pride to consider it—but it happens from time to time. Yambul raised the stakes on purpose."

"You mean he lost to that gangly idiot last week by choice?" Ogdum exclaimed, bewildered by the thought. "How could he give up his honour?"

"It's not such a loss when it's soothed with gold," Gurak rumbled. Chatter sprang up around the table, as the selling price of Yambul's honour was speculated on, most of the group loudly declaring they'd never be tempted to do the same thing, no matter the prize.

Gurak rose, walked over to Agronak, tapped the shoulder of the Orc beside him, and sent him off with a wordless gesture. Sinking into the abandoned chair, he leaned in and lowered his voice. "Gortwog won't be able to see you until Loredas. What were your plans for the meantime?"

Agronak wasn't entirely sure. Those were two days he'd have to waste, and he didn't have a nymph to fill them with. "I'll probably look around, see the town. I hear the smiths here are the best in the Empire."

Gurak looked Agronak over with his scrutinizing gaze, before speaking. "There's few weapons on Nirn better than the one you're carrying."

"I'm not after something for me," Agronak hastily explained. He'd visited every weapons shop he could during his travels with Cerisse, and he'd still not found what he'd originally set out to get. "I'm looking for a staff. For Ysabel—the Arena battle matron. She hates having to get up to beat sense into the pit dogs, so I'm trying to find her something she can use to poke them from her seat." It was a story he'd quickly come up with at Cerisse's insistence. She'd offered to purchase it instead, claiming it was for Cyovta's use, but he vetoed the proposal. The story would falter when he carried it back to Cyrodiil, rather than leaving it with Cerisse.

"That's very generous of you," Gurak murmured.

"She's never really forgiven me for retiring," he confessed. At least Ysabel had stopped trying to attack him whenever he visited the Arena. Her shouts and curses never bothered him—it was almost calming at times, like listening to a familiar lullaby, one he'd often heard while falling asleep in the bloodworks.

Gurak nodded, satisfied with the explanation. He questioned Agronak as to what sort of staff he wanted, looking a little bemused by the exacting specifications, before he reached out and grabbed a passing waiter. "Get as many runners as you can find, and send them to all the smiths. They're to expect a visit from Lord Lovidicus tomorrow. He's looking for a staff—good balance, light weight, unenchanted, effective on all creatures. Tell them to prepare their inventory. I don't want him to have to wait."

"That's not necessary," Agronak protested mildly as Gurak sent the startled Orc off with a push. "I'm in no rush..."

"Nonsense," Gurak cut him off curtly. "No friend of mine should suffer from inexcusable delays. I'll send you a guide to take you around to the stores." With a quick gesture of his hand, palm held up to prevent Agronak from speaking, he continued. "It's no trouble, and I'd rather not have you bothered by any other idiots like Urzog. It makes more work for me."

With a chuckle Agronak accepted Gurak's offer, the warlord excusing himself as the first waiter, dispatched to fetch Agronak's winnings, returned with a heavy leather purse. After a quick check to make sure it was all there, Agronak strapped it to his waist, feeling the pull of his riches against his side. It had been a large gamble, betting almost every piece of gold, but it certainly paid off. With the ten thousand he'd won, and the initial one thousand he'd wagered, he now had enough money to purchase his sword and shield from Cerisse. True, he could invest his gold back into Crowhaven, but with the anticipated earnings he'd receive from the deal brokered with Choctam, somehow that need didn't seem as pressing, at least not with his village leagues away, and the magnificent longsword pushing into his hip.

"I still say she used padding," Ogdum's growled declaration caught Agronak's attention. He watched as the two Orcs argued what seemed to be an oft-discussed debate.

"I'm telling you, they're real," Khazor replied, slamming his fist on the table in emphasis. Noticing Agronak's curious look, he suddenly smiled brightly as he included the newcomer in the conversation. "You know what they look like, don't you? Tell him they aren't fake."

"What aren't?" he asked, perplexed at the talk.

"Ever since Bruma he's been saying the Empress has really thick thighs," Ogdum elaborated, holding his large hands open in the approximation of a circle. "I've tried to tell him it was only her armour. Elven always makes legs look bigger. It's all those pieces."

Khazor thumped Ogdum in the arm, his non-verbal way of refuting his friend's statement. "I saw her fight in the Arena. That uniform didn't even have greaves. They're huge!"

Agronak laughed loudly at the debate, highly amused at the subject matter. "He's telling the truth," he admitted to Ogdum, "she's built like a golem." He'd never forget the way Lilia constantly cursed the webbing of spike-tipped leather strapped to her legs that formed part of her raiment. Especially when she managed to break one of them as she and Synderius pulled it in a tug of war, in an attempt to stretch it a little wider. Owyn hadn't even bothered asking how she managed to damage her armour outside of the Arena—with the way the Redguard considered her dafter than a troll, he probably hadn't wanted to know.

Ogdum's jaw dropped open, a combination of surprise and the heavy blow Khazor landed across his chest, in emphasis of the fact he'd been right all along. "It's true?" the Orc mused, leering grin on his face. "Then the Emperor really is one lucky bastard."

Agronak couldn't help laughing at that, deciding against explaining Imperials, in general, didn't consider massive thighs an attractive quality in their women. He found his own tastes varied, product of his unique upbringing. He appreciated a sturdy Nord just as much as a lithe Altmer—the relative merits of each race's ideal of beauty something he'd absorbed during his years in the Arena, seeing about everything there was to see pass through town.

"And what about yourself?" Sharm purred into his ear. "You seem to be rather lucky. Do you have anybody special to share your luck with?"

With a wink he deflected her question, not about to discuss his newly begun affair with Cerisse. He enjoyed bantering with her, the tantalizing friction between their words. And it didn't hurt Gurak seemed to notice it—hopefully he'd forget completely about Cerisse's unusual exit from Agronak's suite.

The rest of the evening passed in lively talk and the warmth of companionship. Agronak hadn't realized how much he'd missed being able to sit down with a group of relative strangers, to end up counting them as new friends. Other than the Hawktons, this option did not often appear to him during his travels in High Rock.

It was late when the party finally broke up, the lower levels of the club already emptied and clean, the staff impatiently waiting for their long working day to end, by the time the revelers on the balcony began making their farewells. Finding Sharm the only other individual staying at his inn, Agronak almost offered to escort her back before remembering it would probably come across as an insult, rather than a gracious gesture.

He needn't have worried, as she latched onto his arm while essentially ordering him to walk with her. It was a short trip along the near deserted street, the shops dark, citizens sleeping away the deepest part of night. The clerk behind the counter let out a squeak of surprise when Agronak and Sharm walked in, almost knocking his head on a table as he suddenly bowed low, welcoming them back. Waving off all offers of assistance, Agronak moved over to the staircase, Sharm doing the guiding.

"If it's not too much trouble, I think one of my amulets got left behind when the staff packed up my things," she breathed, leading Agronak to his room. "Would you mind if I looked for it? It's my favourite."

"Of course," he replied, unlocking the door. "I'll help. What does it look like?"

"It's topaz, cut in a circle," she explained, holding her fingers apart to demonstrate the size. "I fell asleep with it on yesterday. It might have fallen off overnight." She slipped off her shoes and crawled onto the bed. Kneeling on the pillows, she peered down into the crack between the headboard and the wall. "I think I see it," she called him over with a wave.

"Can you get it?" he asked, standing beside her, craning his head in an attempt to get a better look.

Sharm reached down into the gap, arm disappearing behind the pillows and linens, face contorted as she concentrated on trying to navigate by feel. With a sigh, she pulled her hand up empty. "My arm isn't long enough. Do you think you might...?"

He indicated for her to shift over. After kicking off his shoes, not wanting to mess up the fine bedding, he shuffled beside her, pressing his cheek against the wall as he looked down into the crevasse. The warm sparkle of gold came from below, where the wall met the floor.

With a grin he cast his spell, using telekinesis to grab hold of the wayward jewelry. It slid up along the wall, a soft sound marking its progress, before he snatched hold of it. He offered it to Sharm with a flourish, making a mental note to tell Cerisse just how useful his spell could be. Unless she could train fae to play fetch, he couldn't see how any of her magics would have helped much in this situation.

"My hero," Sharm's enthusiastic response burnt his thoughts away with the heat of her lips as she kissed him. He found himself unable to think, only able to react—passionately, desire washing over him like a second skin.

She loosed a throaty laugh when he pushed her down on the bed, encouraging his enthusiastic caresses. He wasn't able to form a thought, overwhelmed by the intense sensations occupying his mind—the smoothness of her skin; the pressure of her hands as she pulled him closer; the fire of need as it danced over his skin, matched by the inferno raging inside.

And the irritating prickle of minor shocks, the talisman around his neck pulsing with biting magic, far worse than he experienced when he'd first put it on. Leave it to witches to enchant something with negative effects...

Witches. Memories of the coven—of a certain friend of the coven—bubbled up from the sludge of his mind. With a gasp he felt the spell around him waver, weaken, then finally burst, the charming magic flaking off him like shards from a shattered window.

He pushed off the bed, mentally reeling as his thoughts began to catch up. Sharm, wearing the brazen expression of one caught red-handed, but who didn't really mind, rested on her side and gave him an inviting smile. "I thought I'd help out. You seemed a bit shy..."

"Out!" he bellowed, the flames of desire quickly turning into a bonfire of rage. He fought to keep his anger under control, feeling it pressing against the constraints of his reason, desperately attempting to get loose.

She seemed to sense the danger, choosing to scramble to the opposite side of the room, putting the bed between them as a buffer. "I'm sorry," she hastily offered, "I didn't think you'd mind..."

But he was beyond apologies, every word she said in defense serving only to infuriate him further. He stalked over to the door, wrenching it open with such force it slammed into the wall, knob denting the plaster. "OUT!"

She hurried across the room in a nervous jog, stopping only once she'd stepped out into the hall. "My shoes," she whimpered in a dry-mouthed voice, barely louder than a whisper.

Spells being far beyond his grasp at that point, he covered the distance to her shoes in a couple of quick strides, before turning back with a snarl. "Don't you ever," he growled, throwing one of the shoes with such power the heel knocked a hole in the wall of the hallway, "cross my sight again!" The second shoe followed behind, creating another dent before clattering to the ground.

As soon as he took one step closer, planning to slam the door shut, she let out a worried squeak, grabbed the shoes from the floor, and fled down the hall.

He pushed the door closed with such violence the wood frame splintered with a loud crack, before turning the lock with shaking hands. He stepped back, closed his eyes, and waited out the tremors of fury coursing through his body.

As the anger started to melt away, he became aware of a cold, gnawing sensation in his stomach, and a fluttery feeling in his chest. It took a while to recognize it, a sensation he'd not felt in years, but he finally identified it as 'dismay'.

Never before had he worried about the tricks of illusionists, their manipulative spells of no more threat to him than an angry fly. But ever since he'd come to High Rock, where currents of magic unlike any other flowed around him, he realized he'd been something he'd long stopped thinking applied to him.

Vulnerable.