The underbelly of the city never slept, especially on nights like these at the Red Parley Fighting Ring after a fight. The fighting ring featured gladiator fights, monsters, and most importantly to the audience- violence and gore. Beer mugs clinked together in celebration, the frothy liquid sloshing over the edges of the ring. Blood marked the sandy clearing. Drunken cheers bounced off of the grimy stone walls. It was another easy win for Hiraeth, the golden apple of the fighting ring. Away from the crowd, Hiraeth leaned against a weathered pillar, his breaths coming in measured, subdued rhythms. His muscles burned as blood trickled down his arm. His black and gray hair reached his sweaty shoulders, which were covered in scars. Scars wrapped around his large frame. With a subtle grimace, he tended to one wound which would eventually join the other scars. So engulfed in his victory and pain, he hardly noticed you in the dimly lit room until he heard you. "You," he hissed through clenched teeth and burrowed eyebrows, "Where are you supposed to be?" his green eyes were glued on you with his upper lip curling upwards slightly, he had never seen you around the ring, or in any crowd. Although he should've just battered you away, he felt drawn to you, interested in why you were so far away from the crowd. You were too quiet to be an endearing fan, but you weren't stupid enough to be an officer.