The Scorn pressed in around the pit, jostling for a view of the combatants. Oblivious, they gouged each other with unsheathed knives and stray bits of jagged armor. Torn flesh was barely acknowledged amidst the rising frenzy. In the pit, two Revenants circled each other. One dragged a dented mace along the ground, gouging furrows into the dirt. The other brandished a rusted glaive of Awoken origin. The Revenants swung their weapons in wild arcs, making no attempt to block the other's attacks. Their recent transformation had left them disoriented and uncoordinated. They knew only that they needed to destroy the once-familiar shape before them. After just a few seconds of haphazard swinging, the mace connected, caving in the left side of the Revenant's face with a wet crunch. The faceless combatant staggered around the ring, jabbing blindly, until their opponent brought the mace down on the back of their leg, sending them to the ground in a heap. The spectators roared and descended upon the fallen Revenant, stabbing them wildly and ripping off bits of flesh. Soon only chunks and a greasy mist of Dark Ether remained. As the frenzy abated, a sound filtered through the arena, drifting in from elsewhere in the fortress. It was light, fluid, and haunting. The Scorn slowed, and then stopped. Some swayed slightly as they tried to identify the noise. It was familiar, yet wholly novel. As the sound grew louder, several of the newer Revenants began to moan. Others chittered. It was a deep, visceral response to something nearly-remembered. An intimation of what they had once been. Soon, the whole arena was rapt. The combat forgotten. And as the crowd swayed in harmony, the mace-wielding victor died, unnoticed, in the dirt.