<strong>Kerath Al'Sanbone (http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheetview.php?sheetid=335740)</strong><br/><strong>HP:</strong>5/87 HP<br/><strong>AC:</strong>29 (flat-footed 24, touch 24, +dodge bonus vs chosen opponent)<br/><strong>Status:</strong>None<br/><strong>Effects:</strong>None<br/><br/>Kerath ducked and weaved to the best of his ability, but he couldn't avoid all of their attacks, and two clawed hands managed to rake his flesh. Grunting he kept moving, trying to find an opportunity to attack, only to barely managed to avoid axes whistling over his head. Suddenly, however, he felt a tearing pain as the leader of the pack managed to thrust his spear and nearly run it clean through Kerath's left shoulder. Gasping with agony, he bounced back, pulling himself off of the spear. Kerath eyed the creatures before, his expression one of murderous rage. He wanted to stay, and cut every single one of the bearmen to pieces, slowly.<br/><br/>But discretion had always been the greater part of valour to the gladiator, and he knew that if he pushed himself any further, it would be the death of him. Catching his returning blades, Kerath activated the magic of his cloak, and disappeared from the arena in a simple puff of smoke.<br/><br/><strong>8:00 AM/Ghetto of Performers</strong><br/><br/>Kerath groaned as he spent a great deal of his remaining funds on healing potions from a local seller in front of the arena. As important as that money was, however, surviving the day was more important, if for no other reason then to live to kill those quaggoths another day. Kerath had to fight to restrain his rage and his shame, having not even had a chance to kill one of the bloody things. He growled angrily as he downed the last healing potion, the merchant keeping his distance from the clearly-murderous gladiator. Grimacing at the tears in his shirt, Kerath sighed and began to walk away from the Blood Tusk arena. He'd never be able to show his face there again until he had redeemed himself, somehow.