The fight pit was amassed with the region's most aggressive, most vicious warriors. Each was there to vie for power in whatever way that they could secure it. If that meant a poisoned dagger in the back or a mace to the skull, it didn't matter, so long as they came out standing on top of the piles of corpses by the end of it. The ritualistic structure of the fight pit was about as close to a sacred rite as the likes of Mordor's orcs would ever get.

In the fight pit an orc was stripped of his identity, worth no more or less than his opponents; whoever was left alive after a fight would emerge, reborn as an undisputable champion among his fellow warriors, and often showered in winnings: titles, riches, armor, weapons, servants, and more. Anyone could become someone at the pits. Even snaga orcs, provided that they fought well alongside their masters could earn freedom and be promoted to the highest ranks. And such rewards encouraged combatants to give it their all; which was all the better for the entertainment of the onlookers.

Those who lost were not so lucky. If they died, they were worth hardly more than the grease their bodies could be cooked down into. If they survived, a rare occurrence, they might be made into slaves themselves, tortured, humiliated, subjugated to their opponent. Sparing one's opponent was often seen as even crueler than killing them. An orc that lost in the fight pits was viewed as absolute weakling scum.

Weaving in and out of the crowd at the pit, Granyk, the goblin underling of the captain of the guard, was becoming concerningly more desperate for his plan to succeed. He needed his captain, Qol'dra, to get slaughtered, and yet the orc had defied all the odds. In his greed, Granyk had lied and cheated to get the captain shoved into every battle he could, just hoping some upstart would behead the stupid orc once and for all.

Earlier in the week, when Granyk started to execute his plan, convincing other orcs to challenge Qol'dra had been relatively easy. Qol'dra may have been the captain of the guard, but that just made orcs eager to dethrone him, so they might have a chance at the position and all its benefits. After all, the captain didn't seem to be all that clever, nor particularly strong. Most orcs looking for a fight thought he might be an easy target. But to the surprise of each orc that Qol'dra went up against, and Granyk, who monitored from the sidelines, the captain of the guard thwarted his opponents each and every time.

Granyk's patience was wearing thin, he wanted Qol'dra just to die already! It was getting to the point that no more orcs were willing to challenge the captain anymore. The odds didn't lay in a challenger's favor anymore, and word about it had spread among those who did want to fight, who then had started issuing challenges to other orcs, easier targets, instead. With his plans starting to crumble, Granyk knew he'd have to adjust, possibly even change his current target.

He knew he also wanted that brick-headed olog brute, Ar-Tashk the Reaper, to suffer. He wanted a taste of that human slave's flesh. So in his recklessness, Granyk had forged a writ of challenge, and snuck it into the roster of the pit master, cementing the battle; forfeiture would be at the cost of each combatants' life. Pitting the two against each other seemed risky; pushing two of his enemies against each other might increase the chances of them figuring out who was rigging the pit fights. If Granyk's plan was exposed, he'd lose his head for sure. But, it was a calculated risk on the goblin's part, and it was absolutely worth it, as long as he had accounted for every contingency.

If word of the fight didn't reach the Reaper in time, he'd have a bounty placed on his head for forfeiting the fight by his absence. If the olog did show up and Qol'dra was killed, Granyk would at least have the duration of the fight while the olog was busy, so he could get a good bite of the human slave. If the olog died, Granyk imagined gleefully, he might just have enough time to devour the slave whole; he could figure out some other way to off Qol'dra after the fact. If by some miracle, they both killed each other in the arena, Granyk would have whittled his list down from five targets to two in one fell swoop. It seemed by all Granyk's calculations that he simply couldn't come out of the situation without some modicum of success, regardless of the final results. The prospects made him grin wickedly. When a roar erupted from the crowd, announcing Ar-Tashk the Reaper's arrival, the goblin took that as his signal to slip away into the growing darkness.

Ar-Tashk strode boldly towards the fight pit; even with no subordinates at his side, the olog was an imposing titan to behold. Pyres of flame lined the walkway towards the pit, casting terrible shadows across combatants and all in attendance. Thick smoke and the pungent stench of grog mixed with blood clouded the night sky. Howls of the blood-thirsty, raucous crowd thundered in an ear-splitting roar. Lining the pit was a series of cages that held hellish beasts, which paced while waiting for their chance to leap into the fray.

A groaning, half-dead orc was being dragged from the pit by an unsettling team of dead-raisers as Ar-Tashk approached. The best fighters would be lucky if the dead-raisers took a liking to them, even after losing; they might even give a corpse a second chance, given the right materials and magic could be woven.

The pit master looked up from his feast-lined table to see Ar-Tashk drawing closer. The fat orc rose from his chair and opened his arms wide in a drunk welcome, letting the Reaper know they had been expecting him. "Ah! Hic… If it isn't our resident juggernaut, here to bless the ring with his presence! Ahh. We're all very excited, aren't we? BRRRP! Pardon… Yes, very excited to see your fight!"

Ar-Tashk was in no mood for stupid games. He leaned over the table, demanding that the pitmaster tell him just who agreed to the fight on his behalf, "Who dare speak for az korra? Careful of your words, akrurz-bak-lat… Do not lie."

The pitmaster drooled as he stared uncomprehendingly at the olog, "What ya on about, big fella? Hic! I've got yer writ right here in me… um.. Roster book. See?"

When the pitmaster moved to show Ar-Tashk his book of challengers, the olog slung his ballista off his shoulder, holding it half cocked as he snarled, "You accept my name on razal-ushum, then you accept blame!"

The pitmaster hardly had a slurred moment to make sense of the threat in Ar-Tashk's words, before a giant iron bolt, as long as a spear rocketed through the orc's gut, spitting him like a wild boar.

"URK! AGH! WHAT ARE YOU THINKING, SKAI-LAT!" He wailed and gnashed, very much broken from his drunk stupor by the massive wound that spluttered black blood every time he moved.

Ar-Tashk leaned over the pitmaster, and shoved the roster book back into his chest, a guttural threat rattling the very air between himself and the pitmaster, "Gu-tan maukum golb. Make mistake, I take your life."

The orcs that had been around the pitmaster's table scrambled to their leader as soon as the olog ripped the ballista bolt out of its victim and turned away. If they were trying to tend to his gaping wounds, or verify whether or not he had died, the crowd couldn't tell. They had fallen into a tense hush, watching, waiting to see what would happen.

Many orcs around Nurn had been betting for a long time that the Reaper would be recruited for bigger and better things, serving more directly under the Dark Lord. Sure, Vezhir the current overlord was a terror in his own right, and had the big, thick-skulled olog at his command now, but it was only a matter of time before the olog outgrew the owl-eyed overlord. Maybe, they thought, the Reaper's presence at the fight pit tonight was the start of something big.

The olog swung himself down into the pit with ease, roaring in black speech at the murmuring mass, making his message as clear as possible: the negligence of duty by any orc or uruk present was a mockery of what it meant to earn one's way to the top; whatever coward had summoned him to the fight pit ought to have stepped forward so they could prove themselves worthy. And for that matter, where was his supposed opponent? Shouldn't the captain of the guard step forward? His prize was waiting for him after all, if he dared to come claim it! Was he afraid of death? Was he afraid of the monster he had awoken? Ar-Tashk was ready for him. The Reaper was here to take him to the grave.

Tension held the crowd in quiet suspense as they all looked around for the other combatant. From the far side of the arena, there arose a clatter as the captain of the guard, Qol'dra the Slow, rose from his seat and gathered his weaponry. The captain's hand was steady but his movements sluggish and over-calculated. Ar-Tashk watched the perturbed orc, his icy gaze piercing through the orc's armor.

A handful of other orcs rose with the captain; his entourage was ready to join the battle alongside their leader. After all, if Qol'dra won, they'd all bask in the reward of scaling up the ladder of ranks; they might even become captains or warchiefs themselves! If their captain lost, there was a rare possibility that they'd survive, but if they did, maybe the olog himself would recruit them. The Reaper was unlike any prize to be won; they just had to either kill him, or impress him. In all, a group of six orcs and uruks fell in line behind the captain and entered the pit where Ar-Tashk was waiting for them.

****Translations****

Snaga - Slave

Az korra - me, The Reaper

Akrurz-bak-lat - you drunken embarrassment

Razal-ushum - a stranger's challenge

Urk! - Damn!

Skai-lat! - Curse you!

Gu-tan maukum golb - Record the fight carefully.