An uproar erupts from the floor below, shaking the dirt-smeared walls and rafters. Bundles of straw and wads of old mattress strapped to the walls shudder, threaten to fall. But they do not. They are made for a whole lot worse than naked headbutts and misfired punches, but the pipes and knives are excluded from today's events in the Ring of Light.

It isn’t public knowledge, but the schedule had been decreed so because the staff are short on straw and mattress replacements. The misplaced budget may be obvious to any member of the audience already. But the staff don’t have to announce their reasoning. Break their rules, and punishment is in store. That’s all you have to know.

Thankfully, the participants rarely mind what they are given. The fun goes on.

As waves of commotion rise and fall, three guests seated at balcony table, over the Ring, attempt to form conversation and attend to the drinks and extensive breakfast ensemble sitting on their table. A collection of mostly brown substances shivers, the plates and cups occasionally attempting to jitter off the edge as the volume below shakes the floorboards.

"There’s no way this is a meal for one person,” says the grimmest looking man of the group, pale haired and slouched into his black leather jacket. He hovers over a meager cup of coffee and glares at a stack of breads. He did not order the food, so he feels open to insult it.

Do you want any?” asks his presumed friend, somewhat more lighthearted and eager eyed, but utterly baffled at how to properly prepare a bagel. He holds the small cubes of bread up for his companions.

“No.”

“No thank you, Ritz. You enjoy,” the third guest says. The slender man flashes a look at his phone, then at the main entrance in the floor below, then to his own cup of tea, which he nudges back to the center of the table, then back at his phone. He first guest feels queasy just looking at him, and begins to say so when another cheer surges from beneath them.

Ritz pulls away from his careful bread slicing and tilts his chair backwards, head craned, precariously over the edge of their balcony vantage point. The makeshift wooden outcroppings surround the length of the room, but its height does not guarantee a good view. Ritz leans further and further. This makes the first guest upset and he arranges another complaint to fling as soon as the crowd dies down. A scowl takes shape.

It is cut before he even speaks. “Uriel, there's no need to sit and squint if you're feeling ill. If you need the bathroom, you know they’ve opened a new one on this floor.” The calm man with the phone smiles flatly. He checks it again, then looks in Ritz’s direction. “How’s it look down there?”

“The priests are stopping something.”

There is an indignant yell from the audience below, so priests must have stopped something good.

“Any blood?”

Ritz snakes further and further across the balcony railing, and sets a foot up. “There always is. But today is a normal day. So that means just a little bit.”

A harsh laugh. “You’re right. Can't properly break anything with your bare hands. I suppose they're running low on wall padding.”

Uriel slams his coffee down on the table. “You two can be pretty sick, you know that?”

He sees a figure on the floor below lurch into view - face distorted and dark red and dusted with yellow sand - the group's table is a too far to tell for sure (and Uriel doesn't want to stare) but it looks like a good portion of nose has been driven higher on the face, bleeding profusely. The figure gives a roar and heads back into the fray.

“Just trying to make the most of our time here, you know, watching the show.” Again, the calm man looks at the phone before bothering to make a bit of lackluster eye contact. “You can go, if you want. I’ll give you a call if there’s anything to actually report.”

“You don’t sound optimistic.”

“That’s why I’m trying to find other things to think about until the time comes. Oh look, more refs heading in. Shit, that’s a lot of them, big brawl down there -- Ritz?”

“I’m looking, I’m looking…”

There certainly is a lot to take in, a thump occurs and there is a tooth or two lying in the brown dust next to their fallen owner. The onlookers shower the participants with encouragement, while several black coated arbiters pull the remaining action back to the center of the Ring. One group piles on another. There is so much moving, so many thrashing limbs to check, that even Uriel pulls closer to the rail to help the search.

Three pairs of eyes sort through as much as they could through the rising dust, until things settle into a traditional brawl. The three guests slowly take their breaths back and turn to each other over the table.

“Didn’t see him. I didn’t. Did you?”

“Nope. You’d know for sure if he was there. God dammit.” Uriel sucks down some coffee loudly as if making a point. Ritz saws his knife shrilly into the plate in response .

Checking his phone again, Magnus Long woefully regards the hours he has wasted and represses a sigh that threatens to turn into something less dignified. He doesn't move to leave, though. “Didn’t see the other guy either. At least, I don’t think so. Anyone?”

Uriel frowns. “I’m not even going to try looking for that one. There’s no way you’d spot him in a crowd around here. And God know what he’s thinking after all that happened, man, I’d rather not.”

"Rather keep him out it?" Magnus checks his phone. Then he takes a glance at the arena entrance and pushes his cup of tea back to the middle of the table. “Would have been a good plan. If only Val thought like you did.”