Carried aloft by icy winds, the piping voice of a distant soldier drifted across the Lochs.

"Oh, this crate'll make a coffer when the wager pays off,

Or this crate'll make a coffin when the wager falls through...♪"

Pipin knew the song well, as did every Ul'dahn over a certain age. It told the tale of a youth on the way to seek his fortune in the golden city, with only a box for company. His perilous journey through the wilds was depicted as a spirited roll of the dice, an invitation to Nald’thal to fill his burdensome crate with gold, or failing that his mortal remains.

The marshal had always doubted that the hero of the tale had won his wager, largely because the song had been a favorite of his father’s, and he could not think of the man without bracing himself for some impending disaster.

In stark contrast to his adoptive parent, Pipin's birth father was an abject failure─an inveterate gambler and a drunk who would sooner sell his own son than repay a debt with his own sweat. A man who had, in fact, done just that. Pipin had been twelve years old at the time, busily sorting rocks at the mine when he was accosted by a brawny lanista.

"Come, boy─you belong to me now! And the bloodsands ever thirst!"

And before he knew what was happening, the young Lalafell found himself sprawled on the floor of a cramped stone cell in the gladiator stables. Days of ceaseless drudgery were to follow. Every morning, he was awoken at the crack of dawn to perform chores for the older fighters. And when those duties were done, he could look forward to hours in the practice yard under the gaze of the merciless drillmaster, the slightest mistake corrected by the snap of a whip or the thud of a cudgel.

The only thing Pipin didn’t hate about his new life was the food. A gladiator's body was an investment, and the lanista wanted his charges fit and strong to bring home his share of the prize money. Even the novices were provided with hearty meals: great slabs of bread, and fist-sized chunks of meat swimming in broth. Better still, the cook was liberal in his use of spices, treating Pipin’s palate to a world of flavors he never knew existed.

But beyond that single pleasure, the pain of each passing day seemed ever more difficult to bear. Pipin wasn't sure how long he could endure the grueling routine, and even if he did, there was no guarantee that he would survive his first match on the sands.

I am no better than a slave.

Desperate to escape, Pipin watched and waited for a chance to run away, but the drillmaster never once seemed to relax his guard. It seemed there was no way out but the grave. Then, after a year of back-breaking labor and bone-crunching training, he was ordered to serve as an attendant to one of the stable’s champions. It was a meeting which would change Pipin's life forever, though it hardly seemed momentous at the time...

"How old are you, lad?"

"Thirteen."

The gladiator seemed satisfied with Pipin's answer, and made no further effort to engage him in conversation during their walk to one of the Coliseum’s antechambers. Unsure if the rugged Highlander was nervous before his match or merely a man of few words, the boy resolved to hold his tongue. Gladiators could be a foul-tempered lot, and Pipin did not wish to earn himself a clip around the ear for breaking this one’s focus.

Even after arriving in the antechamber the Highlander said nothing save for a few terse instructions. Pipin carried them out wordlessly, helping to strap the gladiator into his armor, before finally proffering his helm; a piece styled to resemble a bull's horned head. The towering Hyur plucked it from his hands as if it weighed nothing, pulled it on, and strode out into the arena.