Simple. Benign. Solid.

These were the words Vaeron chose to describe the arena as he stepped into it, his blade already drawn. His keen eyes scanned around the vast rectangular base, with a pyramid-like structure at each corner. They seemed to hold up a kind of shield, invisible save for the telltale shimmer that was akin to a mirage in a desert. Beyond the shield were teirs of spectators, hundreds of blood-thirsty, violence-lustful watchers. Still, despite this dome of protection a thin precipitation of snow fell from the sky, coating the ground in a paper-thin white skin.

Likely, he was not the only person there who saw the similarity between the snow and the ash outside.

Vaeron took a long breath in and leant back to peer behind him. From the doorway that magically had allowed him to enter into this protected arena stepped a magnificent black steed. His eyes were like unfathomable voids, his hooves the size of dinner plates. His deep black coat was like pitch, shadows in the night, and his mane lay flat against his muscled neck and back. Staring deep back at Vaeron the horse, known as Megladon came to his side, and did not react as the door disappeared behind him.

"The monks said to keep one foot on the floor at all times," Vaeron grunted. "Hopefully that means just one of us needs to."

He patted his horse's neck and moved around to Megladon's side. For a silent second he ran his fingers through the soft, lucious mane, then smiled before he jumped. With one leap and tension in his arm, he threw himself onto Megladon's saddleless back.

He paused, and grinned slowly as it seemed his notion was correct - having just one of their sets of feet on the ground allowed them to remain and not fail the rules of the arena.

"Good," he murmured, tightening his grip on his blade.

And then, finally, he looked at his opponents.