He found what he was looking for at about noon, in what was probably the center of the city, and it nearly made him chuckle ruefully. It was the ruins of some ancient arena or stadium, which had been shattered at one end by a large tower that had fallen into the stands at that end. He walked around it and found that all but two of the entrances were blocked off by debris, and both of those opened into surprisingly narrow streets for the layout of the city, flanked by high buildings that looked to have been very important places in their day. The long pile of large stones on the far end of the arena gave an exit for someone nimble enough to move across such treacherous terrain, but would block something slow and ungainly. Then again, an exit could be found on any side for him, since he could make the jump from the floor of the arena up to the the lowest of the stands.
It was perfect. Tarrin stood at the top of the stands and looked down. The floor was covered in sand, but there were rocks and debris littered across its surface. It was about twenty spans from the floor to the stands, and the two usable exits were accessible only from the stands. Once something got down to the arena floor, it would have a hard time getting out unless it could jump.
It was ideal. Just enough open space, surrounded by obstacles. It was an easy place for him to leave, but not for his opponent. And the two narrow pathways between the buildings, he discovered after exploring them, were ideal for setting nasty little traps to slow down, or if needs be destroy, any pursuer.
This was the place.
Now that he had found his place, he got to work. He cleared away the smaller stones and debris on the sandy field, the kinds of things he could easily miss and trip over in the heat of battle. He left the larger stones and blocks, giving the arena floor some things to break up its open continuity, things to use in a fight for either offense or defense. Many of them were light enough for him to pick up and throw, yet were heavy enough to do considerable injury to whatever got hit by them. That task took him most of the afternoon, but he didn't stop, even to eat, afterward. He explored the large mountain of stony rubble that had once been a tower falling against what was the south side of the arena wall. The stones were large and pretty well set, but a stray foot could cause them to shift. That was ideal for him. He went up and down and up and down the pile of rubble, getting familiar with its contours, coming to know the best paths to use to climb up and down its faces. After that was done, he moved up into the stands, making sure there were no pitfalls, and arranging rocks and other things about so they were easy for him to reach, and he'd know where they were, so he could use them as projectiles.
The sun was beginning to set, so he wove together a bright ball of light, bright enough to scare away any Sandmen that may be haunting the ruins, and fixed it so it would follow him about. He climbed up onto the buildings flanking the narrow pathways one at a time, and then built his traps. They were very simple affairs, very big rocks he Conjured set to drop on foes who tripped ropes set along the pathways. His deathrap was another deadfall, but this one was a very large glass bubble filled with the most powerful acid he could remember from his schooling days in the Tower, an acid so potent that it could even eat through steel if it was given enough time. What it could not eat through, however, was glass, and that made the trap useful. It wouldn't threaten anyone unless the bubble was broken. That acid was dangerous, even to him. Acid was one of the few things that could do him permanent injury, and it was something he hoped he wouldn't have to use. No doubt that Jegojah would flail about after being doused with that potent stuff, maybe even keep fighting, and Tarrin may get burned by it as well as it ate the Doomwalker's body down to nil.
The deathtrap on the other pathway wasn't acid, it was an absolutely massive stone set delicately so that it spanned the two buildings, and looked like the bottom side of some kind of bridge between the two buildings from underneath. It was on the pathway with the lower buildings, and it would be triggered by Tarrin himself, using Sorcery to break away the delicate supports that held it in place. Some experiments with smaller stones showed him the distance and speed necessary for him to trip it and get under it before it fell.
That done, Tarrin spent most of the rest of the night exploring the city directly around the arena. He learned every nook and cranny, every side street and alley, even the location and make-up of the many piles or rubble in the vicinity. He found every conceivable place to hide, every cubby hole or dark-shadowed corner.
He explored in his cat form every building within a longspan of the arena to look for those hiding places, and in so doing he was exposed to what the Dwarves had left behind. All the wood, paper, and cloth were long gone, leaving behind only the stone and metal things they made, but that was a significant amount. The Dwarves were adept at making stone furniture, believe it or not, probably softened with cushions and pillows. The faded paintings on the stone walls themselves, and some murals and frescos, showed him what the Dwarves had looked like. They were a short, stocky race, wide-shouldered and barrel-chested, with powerfully built arms and legs. They all had beards, even the women, and wore their hair long and braided in the artwork. Most of the art was depictions of battles and warriors, telling him that the race was a martial one, but there was no glorification of death and destruction in the art. It was a noble kind of art, Dwarves battling Ogres and Trolls and other Goblinoids, even one mural of a group of Dwarves fighting an actual Dragon, but no indications anywhere of them fighting with humans or Sha'Kar. So, it was a race of skilled warriors, but warriors who knew, understood, and enjoyed peace.
He was beginning to be impressed by what he saw. The Dwarves looked to have been a noble people, skilled and strong, proud. It was a crime that they had all died in the Blood War.
The paintings were one thing, but the art of sculpture was another. The paintings and murals were exacting and crisp, like illustrations without soul, but the metal and stone sculpture that graced those abandoned buildings showed the true soul of the Dwarven people. It was bold and exciting, with strong lines and oftentimes abstract depictions. The Dwarves could carve a bust with utter precision, making an exact likeness of someone down to the hairs in his beard, or they could create stunningly complex shapes and objects that seemed almost impossible to the human eye, abstract sculpture that grabbed the eyes and threatened to turn one's sanity inside out. Despite the bizarre shapes, all the sculptures carried with them a sense of perfection, a sense of delightful teasing of the senses, forcing one to concentrate to unlock the secrets hidden within the shape's lines. Tarrin was no expert on art, but he could see the soul within each of the sculptures, and he was astounded by them.
The rest of the night after that was spent removing all the art that would come free from those buildings near the arena, moving them out to the outside edges of the city. He would not destroy such beauty. He also marked those buildings that were largely populated with paintings and murals. Those buildings he would not approach in the battle, no matter what it cost him. He would not jeopardize what little there was that the Dwarves had left behind. He also drew a precise boundary or explored and unexplored buildings, an area that turned out to be about two square longspans. That was the battleground. He would not leave the battlefield, for he would not risk destroying unexplored buildings and the treasures that they may hold.
After he moved all of the art, he started to worry, realizing that he had made a serious blunder. He had left it all sitting outside, and it would be exposed to the elements. If he had to leave, then he may not have time to put it all back inside buildings, and the wind and sand would wear the art down to nothing but soulless rocks. But he was afraid now to go back and move it all over again, because the twinging of the Weave was getting stronger. Jegojah was moving in his direction, and he didn't want to get caught outside his chosen battleground.