In the stands, Drayven rose to his feet and made to jump over the railings. Before he did however, Aethion drew a dagger from the scabbard on his belt. Wheezing, his golden face turning almost orange, he thrust the thin blade under the rim of one of the pectoral plates over his main breastplate. To reduce weight, elven armour was made up of several overlapping plates that were tied together by an underlying matrix of leather belts, allowing flexibility while still creating a tough, rigid outer surface everywhere except the thick central breastplate and helmet. When the knife sliced into the belts, Aethion's left pauldron popped off, the pectoral plate slipped away and he was able to yank the side of the breastplate upwards. The pressure released, he drew in several large gulps of air, his face returning to it's normal color.
"I think... I think that is enough for today." He gasped, getting to his knees and removing the cuirass and his helmet entirely, leaving him clad only in his greaves, mail tunic and a simple padded undercoat. "But you did not go too far. This arena is for fights to the death. You had me at your mercy, and still do. The victory is yours."
