|| open Belthan scowled at the goblet he held, absently swirling the wine about as he stared into its depths. Every inch of this so-called 'Hall of Valor' dripped with stolen loot— and what remained bare rather reminded him of what might happen if a dozen or so druffalos were unleashed upon a perfectly good training arena. Not unlike, he mused to himself, how a magister might decorate his manor... if that magister were utterly sloshed, and dropped on his head beforehand. Just why he, of all people, had been sent to meet the small, rag-tag group of fools attempting to set the world to rights and defeat the blighted Gods was beyond him; he was no gambler... nor was he a particularly good diplomat. He hummed, leaning back in his seat. He was a decent combatant, for his age. Or, perhaps, it was the Dread Wolf's peculiar sense of humor. And just as he prepared to take another sip of his wine— he ducked, barely dodging Arlathan-Guardian bits— how had they gotten a hold of those?— and leaned forward, glaring daggers at the combatants still standing in the arena. "Watch yourself! You could have hit someone!" he barked, before leaning back. "Damned pirates... damned untrained children..." Belthan scanned the Hall once more. Where were they?