“If you were that desperate to see people fighting we could have stayed home and you could have seen me lay Cehn’to out on his back again!” Mahao’li retorted as he elbowed his way through the crowd behind Hrevna’a, only pausing when they reached the steps down to their seats.

While the front row tickets had been originally a gift for Qana’to from Nanamo Ul Namo herself, his distaste for Warcraft meant that his more combative colleagues got to go in his place. And what a gift they were; a pair of seats directly above the combatants gate, before which a miqo’te already stood, waiving cockily to the crowd. 

Rhaq'a would be lying if he were to say that the arena did not bring him joy - somewhat, at least. He enjoyed the adoration, the pressure - even if most of the matches were fixed. He was int he arena now, clad in the usual - not much, a few strategic armour plates, and, his oiled muscles flexing, hefting an axe that was about the same size as him, the hefty, jagged head stained with - what exaclty? Could be dried blood, but little did the spectators know that it was old beet juice. Rha grinned, turning around, and waving at everyone. He was not - a good - shonjate, by any measurements, but hardly a pushover, either.