For some time, Aralak had not been paying attention to the axe that he was sharpening with mechanical efficiency. His crimson eyes had been following the exchange, first between the beast and the elf, and then between the same elf and the towering construct that had descended from the sky. He had to admit that the latter of the two would make a fearsome foe, but from what he knew of the constructs in his own world, they were a simple matter of finding out what animated them and then disabling it. He waited to see how the elf would deal with the situation however, as it would give volumes of knowledge about his mentality.
Aralak raised the axe from across his knees and, holding it loosely in his right hand about half way down the length of its wooden shaft, the orc got to his feet. With unhurried steps he approached the argumentative group. He could never understand why other species seemed to enjoy sparring with words, surely it made more sense to battle with the strength that the gods had given you than to exchange pointless banter and speculation about who was greater. The man who knew his might to be superior but shunned the battle that would prove it was, from an orcish point of view, a fool.
"You are all here for the tournament?" he inquired in deep, guttural tones. Anyone unfamiliar with orcs would likely interpret a threat in his delivery, however those present with prior experience of the green skinned desert dwellers would understand they were, by nature, confrontational beings who despised phatic conversation.