Day One: Date Unknown, Time Unknown

Dear Readers, I have been captured! I know not by who or why, I can only assume Daybreak has caught up with me. But why not just kill me? They've had us (yes, there are others, though they keep us from speaking to one another) traveling for days, maybe weeks now. I can tell we are on a ship that is a good size as we weren't thrown about by every single wave. We are shackled to one another at the ankles. I was lucky enough to be at one end, so only one of my ankles is swollen and chafed from the heavy metal. We've had sacks over our heads that are only lifted just above our noses when we are given minuscule amounts of musty water and what I can only hope is food. When I inquire about where to relieve ourselves, they laugh. The smell of unwashed bodies in our own excrement is truly eye-watering.
 
When we arrive at our unknown destination, we are roughly marched off the ship, still shackled and blindfolded. It is impossible to tell where we might be and the light filtering through the sackcloth is inconsistent - perhaps from torches? It is not long before we’re halted, and the sacks are roughly yanked from our heads.
 
I try to center myself and get my bearings quickly, Readers, because I knew that this would be my next report should I live. Myself and four others are surrounded by hobgoblins in a damp, shadowy cavern. Their expressions are excited and cruel. I hear distant sounds that at first I cannot identify, then I recognize as the vast, solid roar of a crowd cheering and shouting. The echoes travel down a long hall, the entrance of which is just beyond a large table of weapons. I quickly pull a quill from my head and pray the ink I dipped it in previously has not dried to a useless powder. The damp cavern and conditions we've been kept in work in my favor, though I know my resource is limited. I hope I don't have to start digging too deep into my own flesh, but I will if necessary, as my memory is not as sharp as I would prefer.
 
I observe my fellow captives. I presume we have all been stripped of our original clothes, for we have matching filthy rags wrapped and tied as best we can around our assorted frames. I'd estimate the chains linking us to one another at roughly 10 feet long.
 
I have to look up at my neighbor. Readers, I have never witnessed such a muscular man. He appears as though he has been chiseled from mountain stone. This barbaric mountain carving is over 7 feet tall, with ashen skin and a dark penetrating gaze. I cannot determine the color of those eyes in the darkness of the cavern, nor what he is thinking. His face is stoic and does not betray his thoughts. I must describe his hair to you, Readers, for I've not seen a style like this before. It is a lovely shade of deep brown, but only around the crown of his skull. He has shaved or lost it in some way on the top. But as he turns to survey the table, I see that he has long and flowing locks down his back! The rags do a poor job containing his brawny frame. He flexes, and the strap surrounding his right shoulder stretches then bursts from the strain. He proclaims, "I am Mr. Fresident Nacho Shaykahbaybie."
 
Our nearest captor scowls and barks, “No talking! You,” he points to me. “Choose a weapon.” He gestures to the table, and I admit that I hesitate at this point, dear Readers. Why would they willingly arm us? It is true we are far outnumbered, and weakened from our involuntary journey. However, as I survey my remaining companions, I think to myself that we are not as helpless as they think…well, not all of us.
 
Beyond Mr. Fresident Nacho Shaykahbaybie (I think I’ll refer to him as Nacho from now on) is an elderly gnome, standing roughly 3 feet high with earthy skin and hair. Somehow, his rags (they had gnome-sized rags prepared?) are filthier than the rest of ours and there are streaks of something I’d prefer not to guess at across his face and limbs. He squints in the torchlight, complains of the brightness, and asks for his hood back. Our guards just laugh and ignore him. He frowns and studies his hands with a look of confusion.
 
The gnome’s neighbor is an elf. I have seen a few come through Vallarcia, but they don’t tend to remain in the city. I remember one that came to our shop. He was fascinated to see an entire flock of Aarakocra not only on the ground but also inside a building. My father was disappointed when he left without buying anything. I was disappointed when he declined to give me an interview.
 
This elf is tall and lithe, with tanned skin, green eyes, and delightfully purple hair. He is perhaps about 6 feet tall, and his rags do little to cover his sinewy muscles - especially since he seems to have cropped his top and bottoms. He’s also found a dead starfish somewhere and hung it on his shirt. I cannot fathom why, and it appears the guards can’t either, for there is some discussion about whether he can keep it or not. At least three of them approach and mutter and finally, it is decided the decaying invertebrate can remain.
 
At the end of our lineup is possibly the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She’s taller than me by 7 inches or so, and her rags somehow artfully drape across her slender figure. I can tell she’s fit, she has the same build and muscles the dancers who perform at the yearly festivals in Vallarcia have. Her skin is dark and has an almost green tint to it, she has a mane of fiery copper hair cascading down her back, and green eyes. When they catch the torchlight, they shine like emeralds. For all she appears to be human, it is clear there is something otherworldly about her.
 
I’ve observed for too long. The hobgoblin who ordered me to choose a weapon has grown impatient and jabs at me with a spear. “Choose!”
 
Readers, I attempt to stand my ground. I ask, “Why have you brought us here? What are you going to do with us?”
 
He doesn’t seem to be taking questions, and jabs at me again to force me towards the table. It’s covered in an array of crudely made weapons and magical foci. I spy a quarterstaff and pick it up, then step back. Immediately, a guard is menacing Nacho, though he towers over the hobgoblin. He thrusts his spear at the huge humanoid, but Nacho simply turns and narrows his eyes. “Don’t do that. It makes me…queasy.” His stoic expression returns, and he also chooses a quarterstaff.
 
The gnome still looks confused but willingly approaches the table. He finds a stuffed squirrel among the weapons and excitedly dives for it, displaying an unexpected nimbleness. He caresses the squirrel as though it were alive, then positions it in one hand. In the other, berries spring into being and he offers one to the hobgoblin, who sneers and pushes him back into line.
 
The elf picks up a magical focus and also a quarterstaff, which he spins around in a complicated maneuver. I’ll have to get him to teach me that one if (not if, when) we get out of here.
 
The woman looks down our line before moving towards the table. She looks confused but determinedly steps over and lifts a scimitar and shield. She claps them together and the steel rings throughout the cavern. The hobgoblins start to raise their spears to move us along when Nacho asks for a magical focus too. There are chuckles and one agrees, “Yeah, should make for a good show.”
 
I’m slightly reconsidering my own pick, Readers, but the staff is what I know best. If I have to fight the Mountain though, I’ll most likely end up as a pile of broken bones and feathers. He won’t even have to tap into his magic.
 
He approaches the table a second time and his face lights up. He palms a metallic orb that gleams silver and gold. “Yes, this is it!”
 
Upon seeing someone else choose a second weapon, the elf looks to the woman and advises she should also pick something else. Her hands are full, so I’m not sure what his suggestion would be. She shakes her head, then looks down as the gnome approaches her and shakily holds out his hand.
 
“Would you like a berry?” His voice is reedy and kind. She hesitates but does accept a berry from his filthy palm.
 
The guards move closer once more, and the elf holds up one hand, walks to the table, and takes up a short sword too. He turns back to the group and… Readers, I am not certain what exactly he was doing, but he started to walk in the most strange and awkward way. Like he was underwater, and all of his movements had slowed as he pushed through. His expression goes dark, almost a scowl, and he slowly bobbed his head from side to side, catching everyone’s eye but then looking past them as though to make it seem he hasn’t noticed being watched. The weight of the chains interrupts his gait, turning it more into a shuffle. He is shuffling and bobbing his head and turning his brooding gaze this way and that is when the woman straightens her leg and pulls the chain between them taut. Readers, that elf meets the floor hard.
 
“First day walking?” She smirks and the guards chuckle. The gnome eagerly approaches the prone elf and looks down sympathetically. “Oh sonny, you must be tired. Would you like a berry?” He extends his hand and the elf knocks it away and gets to his feet. The pointed tips of his ears burn red and he shuffles back into line. The gnome shrugs, “Must not be hungry yet.”
 
Nacho looks over to the gnome. “Hey, can I get one of those berries?” The gnome is delighted and places a berry delicately into his large palm.
 
Once more, the guards move toward us and this time direct us down the hall, toward the ceaseless sounds of the crowd. Sunlight starts to come down through openings in the ceiling. As we walk, the leader speaks. “You are now the property of Gladwin Greger. As his prisoners, you will provide entertainment in the Arena.”
 
I’ve never heard the name, even in the dark corners of Vallarcia. I ask who this Gladwin is but the guards ignore me. The elf speaks to the hobgoblins in their own language, but they only laugh and shove him back into line.
 
The gnome peeks around Nacho at me and grins. “I know who he is.” What luck! I bend down to listen and am met by a small, dirt-encrusted hand. “Would you like a berry?” I breathe through my mouth, smile back, and accept quickly so I can hear what he has to say. He simply turns and walks back into place. “But what about -” is all I can get out before we’re forced forward again, and exit the tunnel.
 
The overwhelming shift from dank tunnel to vast sunlight and fresh air stops us all in our tracks. The roar of the crowd surrounds us. A voice bellows from above, “Some new blood to the arena!” Each syllable is drawn out. “This lot has newly arrived! Not even time to unpack and settle into their lodgings.” The crowd laughs and jeers.
 
We are in an enormous pit surrounded by walls at least 40 feet high. The only way in and out is the way we came, another entrance at pit level across the blood-stained sand, and flying straight up towards the sky. The crowd lines the edge of the pit, and across from us is a shaded viewing area hewn directly into the cliff. Our announcer stands there with what looks to be his most wealthy patrons. I assume this is Gladwin Greger. He’s a burly human male with no hair on top, but a thick red beard.
 
Near the opposite entrance, there are six figures. They are unchained but dressed the same as we in familiar dirty rags. There are crude weapons in their hands and terrified looks upon their faces.
 
The corners of Nacho’s mouth turn ever so slightly downward, but he is as stoic as ever. “I don’t find anything funny,” he remarks.
 
“Fight! Fight! Fight!” The crowd has begun chanting in unison. I hear the words coming from close by though, and I peer around Nacho to see the elderly gnome pumping his fist into the air and echoing, “Fight! Fight! Fight!” gleefully and clutching his stuffed squirrel.
 
The gates slam behind us. We are still chained, and it doesn’t look like that will be changing, as the hobgoblins grin from behind the bars and join the chant.
 
Nacho addresses us without taking his eyes off the opposite prisoners. “I am a soldier. Let’s all run at them with the chains and knock them out.”
 
Instead, I call out to the other captives and beg them not to fight, and we can all escape together.
 
The crowd jeers and Greger laughs along with them. “There’s no getting out of here,” he shouts down. “I said FIGHT!”
 
The elf is muttering something under his breath about his warriors but doesn’t move. The other captives move in with their spears, and it becomes clear they are outmatched. Throughout the battle, Nacho throws spears with extreme force and unleashes a beam of light from his mouth that incinerates whoever is in the line of fire. The elf mutters a spell that causes bonfires to spring up wherever he directs. The woman deftly wields her scimitar. I hold out as long as I can, Readers, but in the end, I defend myself and behead a man.
 
At some point, the elderly gnome finds a stone and gifts it to Nacho, who kills the final prisoner by throwing it through one of his eyes. As he collapses, the roar of the crowd reaches new heights, and roses rain down on the bloody sand and dead bodies.
 
Greger has a wide smile of approval on his face. “Well done my new friends. What is your name?”
 
There is no pause before Nacho shouts out at a greatly magically-enhanced volume, “The Cloacas.”
 
It echoes throughout the stadium. Readers, even after the battle we’d just been through my beak dropped open in shock at the vulgarity.
 
“Well done, Cloacas,” Greger is raising his wine glass at us, then gestures to the guards. We are promptly disarmed, though the woman at the end of our line throws her weapons down before anyone can take them from her and spits on them disdainfully.
 
The gnome displays his true fierceness and attacks the hobgoblin who takes the stuffed squirrel. He is easily subdued and wails mournfully, “Squirrrrrrelllllll,” as we are led back through the tunnel.
 
As we shuffle tiredly, Nacho raises his head and I see a hint of pride. “I learned the word ‘cloaca’ from the wisest creature in the world. It is the thing between your legs that whoopsies come out of.” His chin raises even higher as he says, “I was deemed the wisest in our clan because I learned this from him.”
 
Readers, I didn’t have the energy to correct him in any fashion at this moment. We survived our first day in the Arena, but to escape we will need to band together. If that means being a fighting Cloaca, then I suppose that’s what I’ll have to do.
 
Dee Reynoldsson, signing off.