Arena.<br/><br/>A single word rang out in Ariel's ears, rekindled the hope, the faith, that was flickering so faintly in her soul. Arena. She wouldn't be executed, wouldn't be murdered by the demon prince himself, wouldn't be taken helpless. She would have a chance to do what she did best -- kill demons.<br/><br/>She ignored the marilith's touch outwardly, but the burning silver halos of her eyes suddenly flickered open, a sharp, vengeful light beaming forth from them. Arena. "Can I choose my own weapon." Not so much a question as a bleak demand -- an assertion to herself that there was still hope for her. That, with a sword in her hand, and her wings freed (seriously damaged though one of them was), there was a chance that she could win, survive, and escape. Use the tanar'ri's arrogance and greed for bloodlust against them. They would use her pain for entertainment? Then she would use their entrails as her new cloak.<br/><br/>The angelic elf shuddered with disgust as the first demoness's fingertips trailed along her most sensitive and delicate of places. With Graz'zt's disgraceful treatment fresh in her mind, she would not allow herself to feel their touch, to give in, to show a reaction. Even if the centuries-long denial of those pleasures, as a result of her vows, made that temptation so very difficult to resist....<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>