Scanning the room, Skrakch realized that everyone had turned to stare at him. Under normal circumstances, it would be the perfect opportunity for him to take a minute or two to preen before them and show off his flawless looks but the ominous rumbling growls from behind told him it wasn’t the time or place.

Pressing into the crowd of panicked onlookers, he shoved and weaved his way in between them, most of them recoiling as if he carried some terrible disease. It wasn’t a wholly surprising reaction. Some of the Grey Iskrin were known to be carriers of various things but, given the fact that everyone was probably about to die anyway, it didn’t seem to be the most pressing issue. It was pretty impressive that despite impending death looming behind him, the Humans could still find the time to look at him like he was shit under their ragged shoes.

Ducking under the legs of one of the pit guards, he hopped the chicken wire fence and landed into the Arena ring just as the Ghouls started to disperse amongst the crowd. Doing his best to slap a confident smile on his face, he twitched his whiskers as he looked over the state of the two fighters. Winifred was bloodied and bruised, still bleeding from various wounds which included a broken nose and split lips. She groaned, looking up at him through half-swollen shut eyes.

“By the Gods below, you look rough Winifred!” Skrakch said. “No, no. Stay where you are. Keep lying there. You can thank me later,” He added reassuringly. Winifred gurgled something in response, which he took to be affirmative. Skrakch nodded at her and turned around.

“'My my, you’re a big fellow aren’t you?'' He said as he looked Gregore up and down. “Listen here you odious overgrown meatbag. I think this fight can be considered over. We all need to get out of here before the Wraiths show up or y’know...we get eaten by these Ghouls,” Skrakch puffed his fur up and stood as tall as he possibly could, ignoring the fact that his max height reached up to the huge brute’s bellybutton. The Champion himself seemed frozen in place, at a loss of what to do now that his master was occupied.

Skrakch had learned enough about pit fighting to know that Rodyr’s fighters weren't allowed to kill without his explicit permission to do so. Dead bodies were costly to get rid of, even if the Butchery gave rewards for delivering “fresh” corpses. Luckily, Gregore was faithful to his master to a fault and it was that fact Skrakch was banking on.

Skrakch watched as Gregore scanned the crowd, and was pleased to see the exact moment the massive thug realized that he was the one needing to make his own choice.

A swarm of Ghouls had breached into the side room and Gregore could see his master was being attacked by at least ten of the creatures. While the Ghouls individually weren’t a match for the bloated Minotaur, the sheer volume of attacks had Rodyr reeling backward.

Hells, all the Pit Champion could see of his employer were his large horns and his huge meaty hands as the braying manbeast swiped blindly at the incoming undead in desperation. The bodies of his guards, or at least the ones that had stayed, were strewn across the floor or pinned against the wall either dead or dying, sprays of fresh blood splashing their ravenous attackers. Gregore watched impassively as Rodyr collapsed to the floor, finally succumbing to his foes multiple bites, and was swiftly swarmed.

Stabbing his greatsword into the sands, the towering Champion begins to laugh in a gurgling voice before reaching up and snapping his jaw back into place. He turned his attention back to the Iskrin, a simmering rage shining in his eyes.

“You’re just lucky I get paid in advance. There’s an escape hatch in the pit, just watch my back.” Gregore smiles wolfishly and grabs his sword as the first of the Ghouls begins swarming into the arena.

A quick flick of his wrist, and the giant slab of metal he called a sword had already bisected the nearest salivating Ghoul. Moving at almost double the speed as he had when fighting Winifred, Gregore almost contemptuously began slaughtering his way forward with deceptive ease. Ghouls flew at him from every angle but he cut each one of them down with a swipe from his weapon, battering the bodies aside as if they weighed nothing.

The man had turned into a tempest of blade and blood, and it wasn’t long before Gregore’s body was coated in foul fetid blood, not that he seemed to mind it as he brazenly pressed forward.

Skrakch watched the Pit Champion escape for a moment before realizing that it was time for him to be making tracks too. He would hardly become a Chosen if he just stood around waiting to be eaten! He scrambled over to Winifred and yanked her unceremoniously to her feet, quickly pouring one of his more potent potions down her gullet.

“Looks like it’s time to get out of here, you able to walk?” Skrakch says, trying to gauge how useful she’d be in battle. The last thing he needed was someone slowing him down, but the Ratling was well aware it would take a while for his healing potions to make much of a difference. Unlike some healing magic he’d seem, alchemical potions simply boosted the bodies natural regeneration.

“Fuck you ye vermin,” Winifred bristled as she staggered for a moment before getting her bearings. “Even without any Mana I’m twice the fighter ye are.” She quickly but gingerly felt her arms and legs, hissing in pain every time she came across an injury or open wound. “Though I could use a bloody drink.”

Grinning wildly, Skrakch began running in the direction of Gregore, half-dragging Winifred along with him. Rodyr's fighter had managed to cut quite the swath through the crowd, sending bodies of either the drunken fools who had jumped into the pit to flee the undead, or the ravaging Ghouls flying left and right.

Skrakch bolted down this newly created path, stabbing and shoving away any Ghoul who had survived the Champions onslaught. Honestly, at this rate it was smooth sailing, he chortled to himself as he stabbed a Ghoul in the eye, his long claws easily reaching the brain.

Up ahead, Gregore continued his swath of destruction, slicing a few Ghouls in half. However, as the giant man reached the edge of the pit arena, he swiftly reached down and flipped open a well-hidden hatch in the ground. Smirking back towards Skrakch and Winnifred, he jumped into the hole, leaving a rapidly approaching horde of Ghouls the only thing between Skrakch and safety.

As the Ratling considered his frankly horrible options, he heard a battle cry bellowing out from just behind him. Leaping into the fray, Winifred swung her previously discarded bent and scratched staff in a wide arc, shoving the Ghouls back. With a squeak of thanks, Skrakch threw himself down into the sand, and quickly began scrabbling at the hatch.

Finally getting a decent grip, the desperate Rogue pulled it open just as Winifred began flagging in her attempts to keep the Undead at bay. Leaping down into the hatch with a strangled yelp, Skrakch landed with a splash, a small puddle of water and sludge breaking his fall. Wiping the mud off his whiskers in one clean swipe, Skrakch had just enough time to look up towards the hatch, as Winifred collided with him head first, throwing them both to the ground.

Landing in a sprawling mess of limbs, Skrakch scrambled his way upright, and immediately looked upwards to see if any of the Ghouls were hounding them even now. Thankfully, the sheer throng of enraged Ghouls had clogged the hatch entrance, leaving a few unlucky Ghouls trapped upside down and grasping at air.

Detangling himself from the Human, Skrakch thanked the Gods for his well-honed dark vision, and quickly took stock of his surroundings. They’d landed in a small pitch black tunnel, and there was only one path forward. The tunnel itself was bare, stone walls stretching as far as the Ratling could see.

Thankfully, Iskrin were blessed with the ability to see even in perfect darkness, though the bland gray tones and lack of any distinct colours was an unfortunate downside. Still, it could be worse, Skrakch mused to himself as he watched Winifred flounder in the mud. Taking a long moment to commit the sight to memory, Skrakch reached down to pull her to her feet once more.

“You know, at this rate, I think I’ve saved you twice, Winifred, maybe I should be the muscle going forward. Clearly, I’m more suited for the role.” Skrakch teased, pulling Winifred forward along the path.

Grumbling under her breath, Winifred ignored him as she tried to take stock of the area. “Can ye even see down here, it’s pitch black? I’m worried I’m going to run into a wall. Or worse a Ghoul. Oh Gods Above, even worse. Another wee vermin!”

Chuckling merrily, Skrakch had to admit it wouldn’t be a good thing to find another Iskrin down here. No matter which color, it’d just complicate things. Not that he’d expect to find a albino Iskrin down in the mud, the prissy ruling class much preferred to leave such work to brown Iskrin like him. Of course, he was hardly a standard Ratling, no matter the colour, Skrakch reassured himself. No, there was only one proper umber Ratling as far as he was concerned.

The mud-soaked Ratling was frankly just happy to have gotten out from the looming threat of being eaten, likely alive. A dank muddy tunnel was hardly ideal, but he’d take the darkened route over a Ghoul’s stomach any day of the week.

“I always forget you Humans have such shitty senses. I can’t see that well either in the dark, but I can smell well enough. And I can smell a breeze coming from this way. So long as we follow the path, we’ll be fine. Hopefully, anyways. For all we know, Gregore is waiting to kill us both.” Skrakch muttered, realizing they weren’t out of the clear just yet.

“Aye, well, ain’t that bloody good news. Do you think if I asked, he’d let me die second? At least I’d be able to go out seeing ye get what’s coming to ye.” Winifred said with a smile.

A moment of silence passed, and both of them broke out in laughter.

“Gods, we’re fucked.”