As you sit, a Thracian chant begins to rise from the ranks of onlookers. The chorus builds, sounding the beginning of bloodshed as ten people emerge in pairs from five portcullis gates in the arena walls - all unarmed and each branded with the sign of a Thracian noble. One by one, five nobles stand and toss weapons into the arena - swords, hammers, scythes, some even laughing as they discard a woven sheet. The competitors scramble for a weapon, the last Faceless woman being left to defend herself with the sheet.