Those dragged from Militia custody are separated into two groups – some, branded, are shuffled out and thrown in with the other branded combatants who've arrived on their own. The rest – the majority – are hauled into cramped, barred quarters lining half the Arena floor walls. They aren't told what they've been brought here for, and none of the Militiamen will speak to them; some of them laugh, watching, others merely stand as silent sentries. Hooded agents with black stripes along their shoulders walk slowly back and forth in front of the cells, emanating a great, overpowering nothingness: blocking out the magical and supernatural abilities of the prisoners, if they happen to have any.

In the ready area for the combatants, conscripted convicts are joined by proper gladiators, and they know what they're here for. Sadists, violent animals, and those looking to earn marks with the war-god's clergy swing weapons in lazy preparation, talking amongst themselves here and there, some grinning, some occasionally calling out enticingly to the prisoners across the Arena floor.