Arkold's "fellow" legionnaires raise as much of a ruckus as they possibly can, watching from the relative safety of their bleachers ringing the rim of the "barrel", and the netting dangling high over the pit. Entering the "barrel" is a matter of gripping onto the chain and getting hoisted down to the wooden floor below. Getting out will probably involve a bit of swinging … all the easier if one is still conscious, of course, upon exit.

The rules are simple – two go in, one comes out. No weapons, though so many species have their own little exceptions to that "rule", thanks to nature (or what-have-you).

On the side opposite the pit, Arkold's opponent rides down on the cranking chain. He's a rather scrawny fellow … long torso, short stubby legs and arms, big bushy whiskers, little ears that fold back against his head.

Across the fighting pit, the Jupani grins lopsidedly. "Eh! Man, they sent me the bottom of the … heh … barrel," he comments as he watches his opponent be lowered into the ring. In preparation for the inevitable battle he lifts his hands and tightens his gloves before cracking his knuckles with a loud pop.

The otter hops off of the chain a few feet from the floor, and bounces around at the applause and hoots of a few of those in the audience. A few start chanting, "Goo-BER! Goo-BER! Goo-BER!" and then break off, laughing and guffawing.

A Titanian, above the rim of the barrel, stomps over to a big metal drum hanging on chains, and smashes it with a hammer, resulting in a resounding "KLONGGGGG!"

"Enjoy it while yer still conscious, Goober," growls the wolf. He lowers his fists into a fighting position and stalks forward towards the otter.

"Get that pansy-sissy wolf, Goober! 'E's fishfood!" shouts an enthusiastic Akwavi spectator, clinging to one of the nets above the arena with one hand and foot, the other limbs dangling precariously as he leans down to watch the match.

There's a rumbling sensation that shakes the planks slightly. The otter is still bouncing around, playing to the crowd, while the Titanian shouts something over the crowd. Barely can be made out something about "Arkold the Anarchist" and "Goober the Great".

Rather than wait for his opponent to get serious, or face him, Arkold dashes forward and lifts his fist, his intention to blindside the man with a right cross before he knows what is happening. (Rrr, time for some revenge!) He sneers at his opponent as he closes.

Hoots and jeers run side-by-side with the cheering. A spectator well up in the tiers cries out, "Arkold the All Wet!" and this chant catches for a few moments before subsiding among raucous laughter.

The rumbling continues … and just about the time that Arkold hears the jeer … several gallons of ice cold water fall upon him from above!

"Woo-woo!" hoots the watcher from the nets, swinging crazily in his excitement. "Learn to swim, puppy-boy!"

Despite being soaked, the wolf continues forward to strike at the man he has been put against. He's been wet before in fights, jeered at, and worse. He isn't about to lose this money because of some water and a few insults.

Arkold displays his considerable skill in unarmed combat in a well-delivered punch … but the Akwavi displays his considerable natural-born agility, and an ability to duck and slide on the now wet and slippery floor, shooting right underneath the wolf and between his legs! He slaps the wolf's legs with his tail as he goes, prompting Arkold to stagger for his balance … which, thank whomever, he manages to keep for the time being, thanks to finely-toned reflexes.

After a split-second of pinwheeling, though, it's now evident just where the water is coming from. It's pouring into the "barrel" through four sluices set high into the wooden walls. The barrel is filling up with water! It's already almost ankle-deep.

"Wa-TER!" "Wa-TER! "Wa-TER!" the crowd chants, clearly enjoying the spectacle of the combatants trying to maneuver in the changed footing.

Goober slides across the slippery floor to the far side of the arena – back where Arkold came from – his fur quickly slicking back with all the water.

A deep snarl emanates from the wolf as his opponent manages to escape his blow. He whips around to face the Akwavi again and prepares his fists, knowing his legs to be useless while buried in water. (Dagh's eyes, slippery floating rat!) He paces forward slowly and this time waits for the man to come to him.

The otter, however, seems to be perfectly fine with wasting time as the barrel continues to fill up with water, capering about, playing to the crowd at the far end, sending droplets of water flying with splashes of his tail. He grabs the chain Arkold rode down on, and spins about it, slapping the water multiple times with his tail. All the while, the water rises to kneecap level.

"Gah, to Dagh's pit with it all!" yells the wolf as she stalks forward faster. He tries to move where escape would require the otter to either run into him or veer to the side of him into a wall, thus slowing down his escape. "C'mere and fight, yah floating rodent!"

While the otter may be content to goof off as the arena fills, many of the spectators get impatient with the lack of immediate bloodshed. "G'wan, get him, Goober!" comes one jeer. "Wassamatter, scared of the wet dog? He smell too bad for you to jump him, Goober?"

With the crowd obviously tiring of the delays, the otter has to give them something for their trouble, and he hops off of the chain, making his way toward the wolf, bringing his paws together in not-that-impressive fists. Still the otter is a wiry little guy, and obviously quite agile. And by now, the water is waist deep, and Arkold's tail is feeling quite waterlogged. Not to mention his trousers. Brrr.

The wolf lifts his left hand and waves Goober forward while sneering at him. "Afraid of me, eh? C'mon, let's see what yah got!" he growls. Now that he sees him coming, he lets himself wax defensive, expecting the crowd's jeers will push him into throwing an attack. (Li'l squirt won't be so fast if he has to attack me. Let 'im try!)

The otter comes up to Arkold, makes like he's about to throw a punch … but he's quite evidently a bit too far to really have a chance of connecting. Just as the otter seems poised to strike … he abruptly dives, going under the water, and swims around Arkold's feet, coming up behind in a flash!

The otter shoots up from behind, spinning in a move obviously meant to slap the wolf with his muscular tail … but Arkold, anticipating the maneuver, steps back and throws his body into a backward slam with his elbow, connecting the otter in mid-attack! The otter is clearly knocked off course, and Arkold slips in the water, so both land in the just-a-little-above-belt-level water with a big splash!

The crowd cheers enthusiastically, although their approval seems more directed at the action involved than either of the two combatants specifically.

(Yah!) Not about to let the injured Akwavi recover, the Jupani upon hitting the water reaches over to grab for his fallen body. He reaches with one hand at first then the other when he can manage it all the while trying to brace his feet on the floor so he can stand up again.

What follows is much thrashing and splashing, as the otter proves to be quite slippery when wet, as does the floor, but Arkold's determined floundering about doesn't offer the otter any chance to escape. By the time the water gets up to mid-torso level, Arkold has a firm (for the moment) grasp on the struggling otter's right leg, and he's just barely avoiding getting slapped in the face with the tail.

Spectators hoot delightedly, hollering catcalls as they watch the slick combatants, locked together in their bizarre dance.

"Tarrrrrrrnation!" cries the otter, slapping the air and water with his tail in an attempt to get a smack on his opponent. "Leggoleggoleggo, ya big galoot!"

Having the otter's leg, Arkold now moves to yank the man up and out of the water by it. "Ehh, look what I caught!" he jeers at his opponent as he braces himself to haul him out of the water. Most importantly now is grip and balance, so he focuses on keeping the struggling form held tight and his feet well braced on the floor.

The otter swings around, held by his leg upside down from Arkold's grasp. The otter's wriggling strains Arkold's ability to keep his balance, but Arkold succeeds nonetheless, without the least bit of floundering about.

Roaring laughter follows the otter's protest and Arkold's retort. "Hey, ain't he too small? Better throw him back, wolf!" one man yells, inciting more laughs.

The otter throws several small punches at the wolf's midsection, but his arms are quite short compared to the wolf's, and he doesn't even connect.

The crowd really whoops it up at Goober's comic maneuvering. "Next time, pick on someone your own size, Goober!"

Now that he has the otter out of the water and in the air, the Jupani holds him out so he can't strike back at him, but also enough so his head is submerged under the water. "Let's see yah comment now, fishstick!" He keeps a firm grip on the Akwavi and takes some time to back up towards the wall.

The Akwavi burbles and sputters, occasionally thrashing enough to get his head out for just a moment and to spew garbled curses at the wolf. The Jupani, however, manages to make his way back to the wall with only a few minor slips, which he recovers from easily enough.

*BURBLEBLOOB* "Yer mudder was a … " *BLOOBLEBLUB* "… anna she wore army … " *BLOOBLE* "… anna smelt bad, too!" *BLUB*

"What's that? I kin hear yah! Speak up!" says the wolf mockingly as he drags his opponent over to the wall. Once near the solid barrier, he turns the Akwavi so that he is held up against it, and lifts him with a evil grin into the air. With his target in place he raises his leg to knee the otter's stomach into the wall, still leaving his opponent's head under water.

The Akwavi spectator hasn't yet given up on his fellow in the arena. "Grep him, Goober! you can do it!" He swings precariously this way and that in the netting, as he calls out barely-intelligible encouragement to his countryman.

Arkold's knee-attack connects, and several bubbles burst through the water as he knocks the air out of the otter. The otter is evidently stunned, as he stops his thrashing abruptly.

The crowd falls silent as the otter's thrashing pauses, while people lean forward in their seats, watching closely.

Casually, the Jupani just dips the otter's head low enough so that even if he does hunch up, reaching the surface for air would be difficult. Obviously finding this whole situation amusing, he grins from ear, his own tail wagging a bit in the water. "How long yah think he kin stay down there, eh? A minute? Two?" he asks the silent onlookers as if he were a barker at a sideshow.

A few more bubbles reach the surface. The otter hangs limp in Arkold's grasp.

"He's a water-rat! At least three!" one legionnaire calls out, but the bulk of the crowd remains largely quiet, with a few apprehensive murmurs running among them. The otter in the netting's frantic swaying slows, as he stares downwards anxiously.

Arkold shakes the otter's leg a bit. "Eh, not so slippery without air! Now you just sit tight a bit more, and I'll let you up when I feel like it," he tells his drowning catch. "The drink is on me. Heh."

After a moment, the Akwavi spectator shouts out, "'ey! 'ey! Call the match, let 'im up!"

No more bubbles surface.

Murmurs of agreement run stronger through the audience at the call, and many eyes turn towards the Titanian who marked the start of the match with the gong.

The Titanian, in turn, looks down at Arkold and his "catch".

As the Titanian looks down, so does the smaller wolf look up. "Vhai! He may be tryin' to trick me. Yah better decide before I do," he yells up to the gong ringer.

The Titanian grimaces, then pulls back with his hammer, and slams against the gong. *KLONNNGGGGG!* "MATCH OVER! ARKOLD THE ANARCHIST IS WINNER! GOOBER THE GREAT IS LOSER!"

A ragged cheer runs through the audience. Lots of legionnaires turn to one another, settling debts and muttering curses, but a decent chunk of the crowd still watches the Akwavi and Jupani in the barrel, waiting to see how Goober has fared.

The sluices stop gushing water into the barrel … and the current in the water suggests that it is now draining out, though far more slowly than it was filling.

With the bell rung, Arkold drops the Akwavi in the water. He shakes his head a bit and with a roll of his eyes reaches down to grab the limp otter by his shoulders. Once he feels he has a secure grip, he yanks him up towards the surface as he backs off towards one of the chains.

A bit of wading, and Arkold makes his way to the chain. Up above, some burly legionnaires man the crank, ready to haul Arkold up and out of the draining "barrel".

Instead of grabbing the chain and climbing out himself, Arkold pulls the chain up under the fallen Akwavi's arms and fastens it so the otter can be hauled out. "Gettim outta here before he dies or somethin'. And hurry, I still got time for more!" The wolf glares up at the people manning the crank in order to make them act faster.

As the chain rises, a handful of legionnaires – presumably friends of the defeated Akwavi – swarm over to check on his status. "'ey! Goober? You okay there?"

Once the otter is freed from the chain, it is lowered down for Arkold once more.

Arkold reaches for the chain and grabs it with both hands. "Eh, he ain't no Siren," he comments with a chuckle.

The otter's friends lay him out on a flat section of floor, and one starts pumping carefully at his chest, interspersed with blowing air into his mouth. After a few moments, Goober coughs and sputters weakly.

The chain is hauled up once more, and pulled to the side so Arkold can get onto relatively dry ground again. Several rough-looking comrades come up to slap Arkold on the back and congratulate him … some of them clinging to their winnings thanks to his success in the arena. A grim-looking bat walks up to the wolf, and, with some distaste twisting his mouth at having to part with the goods … hands over a small cloth-wrapped bundle. "Congratulations," the bat squeaks without any enthusiasm.

"It's all in da head, gotta outsmart them slippery sorts," says the wolf to those who gather around him. He flexes his arm for all too see and continues to gloat until the bat catches his eye. He lets his arm fall and turns to face him. Quickly his hands snatch the bundle away from the bat and he smirks heavily. "Yah, you keep your bargain, I'll come back and bust some heads … heh, bat."