Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-5583506-20150923172856/@comment-5583506-20151010023605

Despite the door clearly stating that its intended usage was for the champions of the Red team, the teams had been all disbanded since ages past. There wasn't much left of the former glory the Arena once had to offer, and with the Great War that had swept across the Tamrielic countryside almost 200 years ago much of the older parts of the Arena had ultimately fallen into disrepair and was sabotaged daily by local pranksters.

Though the Arena was still active, it had nothing of the splendor and the might from those of the glory days of late emperor Uriel Septim VII, when Agronak gro-Malog was the Grand Champion. In these hard times, the fights more or less served as some form of depraved, bloody amusement to please to lowliest in their daily lives.

The walls were smeared with the stains of darkened, old blood. Armors and weapons lay in troves in the corners of the seedy underbelly of the Arena, gathering rust and became slowly disfigured under their own weight. In this murky pit lived Molestus Histrio, a bearded, poor excuse of a man who oversaw the continued work of the Arena. He sat there in the darkness, wearing a sleveless dirty shirt and acted as both the manager as well as the one who set the odds on the fights, making sure to scrape a little extra gold his way whenever he saw an opportunity.

If there was anyone in this sunky place deemed worthy of having the title of Blademaster, it would unfortunately be him...