Still streaming blood, it was all Gannicus could do to wrestle helplessly with whatever invisible bonds it was that kept him so tightly snared and held aloft. He kicked helpless - a feeble, childish attempt to fight back - and clawed numbly at... something. Nothing? He couldn't tell.

His opponents words have finally proven themselves to have been more profound than Gannicus could have ever predicted - if only he had run when told, then Gannicus would not be held aloft like a ragdoll and covered in his own blood. But running had never been an option - even with death imminent, Gannicus has never run from an enemy. It wasn't in his nature - it wasn't how the arenas worked.

You faced death with a laugh and a salute to the crowd, not a whimper and a helpless gurgle. This wasn't right, Gannicus hated the idea that this man - this god - could kill him like this. Like he was some child, toyed with and openly mocked for things beyond his control.

Terrified, humiliated and raging Gannicus thought it almost a relief when he fell to the floor again to scrabble against the cracked floor and count his blessings. It took him a long few moments to realise that he wasn't dead, and when he finally looked up and around for his opponent he stared incredulously at his retreating back.

"You - Who-?"

A mutter between panting breath and a snarl of pain as he pulled himself to his knees, then, louder, a roar:

"Who are you?"

He needs to know his opponent's name, all the better to swear that he will never be bested by the man again.