Tycondrius stepped through the back door of the kitchens... and into a dungeon.
--or so it appeared.
He was in the preparation area underneath the Ezyrian arenas.
Thus, the stench of piss and sweat was reasonably fresh and human-made.
Disgusting.
But his surroundings were potentially useful.
[Tycon, I got ahold of one of ours.]
"Send them."
He searched through the gladiator lockers...
Err... gladiatrix lockers--
How awkward.
He found something resembling magical reagents. He took apart a few benches.
He blocked the door, pushing in the nails with his finger before scribing an enchantment on the wood.
[Tycon, a few wooden planks aren't going to stop a heavenly army.]
Of course. That was exceedingly obvious if he'd considered it for even a moment.
Tycon sighed bitterly, "I wish you had stopped me before I expended so much effort."
