<hr/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Times new roman;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 22pt;"><strong>Kraven's Arena</strong></span></span><hr/><br/><div align="center">(https://txt.1001fonts.net/img/txt/dHRmLjEwNi5mMTEyMTIuUjAwLjA/d-day-stencil.regular.png)</div><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: georgia;">Prince Tharn had been watching the match between the chemist and archer with disgust. It hurt his eyes to watch. It had been so pathetic that he had to fight the compulsion to jump down into the arena and kill them himself.<br/><br/>“I’ve seen enough,” he grumbled. He wasn’t going to watch the tournament until the finals. He would have loved to see what unfortunate champion had to fight his violent brother. Before Tharn could leave, the giant and fat Prince Darril attempted to squeeze between the two thrones, but he didn’t get far. His belly and hips had been too wide. Instead, he glanced down at the empty throne before turning his head to regard his brother.<br/><br/>“I thought Ciri was here too,” he said.<br/><br/>Tharn brought his paw to his nose and scowled at his brother, “If you’re sitting with me, then I’m definitely leaving. You smell of dead baloney.”<br/><br/>Darril laughed and grinned his spiny and crooked teeth at Tharn. “There was lots of good food here. I couldn’t resist.”<br/><br/>Tharn arched a brow. “Was? I was hoping to grab something before I returned to my room. I wouldn’t be surprised if a blob of insatiable waste devoured everything.”<br/><br/>The corner of Darril’s mouth cocked smugly. “I left some.”<br/><br/>“Miraculous.”<br/><br/>Tharn stood from the throne and walked around behind his chair. Darril pouted at him. “Aw, you’re leaving me alone, big bro?”<br/><br/>“Yes.”<br/><br/>Darril rolled his eyes and decided to lean his weight upon the backs of the chairs. His hands gripped them, and his belly rested on the floor. He watched the second match start up.</span><br/><hr/><strong><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 22pt;"><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: times new roman;">Match 2: Monk vs. Dragoon</span></span></strong><br/><hr/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: georgia;"><strong>Tagged:</strong> Xenyora</span><br/><hr/><div class="floatright">(https://i.pinimg.com/564x/9f/56/37/9f5637f3c424a53c9bc84d8411f73e39.jpg)</div><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: georgia;">A lone man in spiny, sleek armor was climbing the stone steps of the arena. In his hand was a large halberd that he was passing behind his back and twirling at his side. The dragon-like helm he wore was so low over his eyes that his face was hidden, and only blond blades of his hair peeked from the back beneath it. As he walked into position, he continued warming up his arms, while wearing a spirited smile.<br/><br/>The announcer climbed into the arena, ignoring the stairs and walked to center stage with his arms outstretched. “What a mess that was to clean up. That had to be the darkest death I’ve seen so far. It just makes you eager to see the next match. So far, the foreigners have gotten lucky. They won’t be too lucky this time for one of Caerduja’s finest stands before you all. From the Dragoon Unit in General Ralot’s army, a warrior young, but the top lancer in his company. I give you Dragoon Elite Tristan HIIIII~GHWII~ND!”<br/><br/>The Caerdujans cheered, and the dragoon didn’t seem to pay them any mind as he continued to warm up.</span>