The kings motioned to the prisoners. "It is now up to you. Choose whether to risk your lives in the Arena against my Sons champion. Or appeal for your freedom to the Wardens." The prisoners shuffled there feet nervously, eyeing each other in obvious indecision. The Elf stepped forward. The guards reached for the hilts of there swords in caution. In a voice light and almost musical he said, "Sire, I too will fight." The Elf stood back.

At these words, he was ushered out of the doors from where he had entered and into a room which in all respects was the opposite of the cell he had being in not more than an hour before. The room was decked in red and gold drapes, the livery of Terra. Aenarion, turned his head too the right. His eye's sharpened upon a spectacular sword on a golden podium to one side of the room. The sword was made out of blue mineral and the morning sunlight which was sneaking its bright tendrils through the windows made it burn with an inner flame. Too the side of this laid upon a long oaken table lay a full set of armour, a helm and a large full sized shield. Upon the body piece sat a piece of parchment with a hand written note:

"To whoever dons my sword and For showing bravery in facing an unwilling task. I bequeath to you my sword and armour. Your task will soon begin."