The facts on fractures and broken bones (Jygust 30th TT)

[Jack Farrell]

Torchlight flickered on the walls, casting vague unidentifiable shadows over the smooth plaster of the basement. It had become pitted and stained over many years of wear, the floorboards worn smooth and strewn with sawdust to soak up the blood, sweat and tears of the combatants that had stood time and again where Jack stood now.

He threw a few more punches at the hessian sack that hung ragged on the broken brickwork. Full force, his fists sent up clouds of dust with each impact and he nodded, happy with the taught fraying bindings that protected his wrists and knuckles. Perhaps this time he wouldn't bust a knuckle. A few more punches struck low and he sighed as a trickle of sand began to drizzle from the seams of the sack. Back in Sabata, Badar and his family trained in the open with the desert and the elements testing their resolve. This dingy cellar was a far cry from the open sun and the scouring winds that he had called home. Still, you did what you could with what you had.

Someone was sweeping the venue's last competitor from the 'Arena'. A dead cockerel had just lost it's owner a day's wages. Jack sucked in a steady breath and released it slowly. He would only win his day's wages if he won and he had no idea who his opponent would be. At least a fist fight was unlikely to end as badly for the loser, though there were rumours that serious cash could be made for higher stakes. A little deeper than Jack cared to tread. He would rather not have more blood on his hands than was truly necessary.

A clamour rose up in the cavernous cellar and Jack glanced over his shoulder, looks like his turn was up.

[Grey Wolf]

Little Jack knew that the crowd gathered in the secluded cellar near the West Mole was nothing compared to the number of visitors that thronged in during the night, most of the usual customers still asleep or working to earn the money they would bet away later that day. He ran little risk of meeting a serious opponent at this time of the day and thus any winnings he could take home, provided he was left standing, would be slim. A man had to start somehow and this was as good place as any to be noticed, though it would be a while before Jack was noticed by anyone of true importance in the city. Of his opponent there was no sign and there was still a dog fight to be done with before he would enter the rough, sand-strewn ring and try to beat the crap out of the other man, while saving enough of his own crap to be left standing.

While he took out some of the frustration and tension out at the bag of sand a man in his late thirties, or more likely early forties observed the young fist-fighter from a nearby bench. His left eyes was closed shut, a lump the size of a plum and about the same color over it. His face was covered in cuts and scars, and his knuckles were still covered in blood, the bindings upon them torn in several places. He did not speak, but merely observed, wincing a few times as Jack’s blows landed, not looking very satisfied with that. A yelp came from the ring and the crowd rose their voices to a roar, a sure sign that the fight was about to end, the smell of unwashed sweat and blood filling everyone’s nostrils and whipping the people into a blood-crazed frenzy.

[Jack Farrell]

ooc: made a few assumptions here, pm me if I need to edit

No sooner did the surge from the crowd reach his ears than a powerful stamping kick from Jack tore the guts out of the sack and left sand gushing out onto the floor. He grimaced and bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, his footwork kicking up small clouds of dust as he shifted his position. It was in one concentric turn that he first glimpsed the bloodied fighter watching his warm up. His eyes flashed beneath the lightly perspiring brow that belied the heat he was trying to build in his muscles. Heat meant speed, it meant strength, he would need both to walk out of that ring. He stretched out his arms and made his way over to the bench, regarding his watcher with curiosity.

“The sight of two mongrels tearing each other apart does not stir you?” He asked, the double entendre evident in his voice.

Jack glanced over to the scarred man as he reached down into the simple canvas satchel that held his personal effects. He drew his tunic over his head and stashed it alongside his boots. Standing in nothing more than his breeches and the bindings that protected his wrists and ankles he reached again into the satchel and drew forth a long dirty strip of faded cloth. In an almost ritualistic fashion he bound the fabric about his face in the same way he had nearly each waking day back in the desert. There, the facecloth had kept the sand out, here it would keep his long hair in - and more importantly - out of his opponent’s grip. The anonymity would help too, the chalkboard that held the bets simply bore his moniker “Pagan,” a nod to the subterfuge he had had to endure in the monotheistic World’s Mouth. All Jack needed was some disgruntled punter following him home or waiting in ambush as he walked the street.

[Grey Wolf]

The man simply sat where he was, watching Jack come closer, and then leaned back, turning his head and yawned. “Nope.” He turned back and looked blankly before him, breathing slowly. “It’s nothing more than entertainment for them louts, but they don’t feel none of the pain.” The man grinned at this and revealed one and a half line of teeth as he lacked most of the teeth in the upper right jaw. “At least they mostly don’t feel it. But, sometimes I pretend to take a wild swing and let one of them have a taste of what’s it like.” He glanced at the board on the other side of the room and then peered at the young man beside him. “You Pagan? Good fer you. You’ll be having an easy job tonight. The guy is some minor noble’s son who thinks he is tough. Just don’t end it quickly. And get hit a few times. Otherwise they’ll pair you with someone nasty next time.” The man looked forward and grinned once more. “Someone like me.”

[Jack Farrell]

"If taking theatrical blows leads to a face like yours beshi, do not be offended if I ignore your advice."

Jack tugged tighter at the bindings on his wrist and turned to walk back towards the ring. From the sound of it his time was coming and Jack wanted this done with.

Beating another man senseless was not a function that came easily to Jack, though he seemed to find no lack of talent for it. Still, here the ethics seemed to matter little - those in the ring chose to be there. Or at least, most of them did he reflected, his thoughts turning to the pained yelps that immediately preceded his own fight. It was for some a sport, done for the adrenaline and the enjoyment of a fight. For others it was a catharsis, the release of combat venting frustrations that had no place in a civilised society, or at least such as was found on the stony isle. For Jack it was a pay-cheque and a way to keep his edge. Many prized his talent as a combatant, some found a use for it directly, others trusted a man who could hold is own. Jack wanted to stay on form.

He locked one arm across his chest and pulled it, stretching the muscles of his back. All he had to do was stay quick and limber...

[Grey Wolf]

The bruised man laughed throatily at Jack’s tease, shaking his head, but not replying to it. The bruises he wore were more than just a few blows worth, welts forming under his skin making it hard to judge the true extent of injuries. He was in a proper fight and by the looks of it took quite a beating, but whether he won or lost was not readily visible. A woman came into view then, though the heavily built person would hardly make a man turn even if she were naked. Her shoulders were broader than Jack’s and there was a shadow of mustache over her upper lip, even the breasts she had nearly lost in the sea of muscles. “You, Pagan. Get ready. Don’t let the crowd wait and if you think about changing your mind remember it will make me very unhappy. Now, quit your ballet and fight.”

True to her word the crowd parted a few dozen of flickers later, allowing a pair of burly man to drag a hopefully unconscious, but possibly dead body of white furred dog, a sound of barks coming from the other side of the ring. Then Jack’s opponent stepped into the ring and the crowd started growing restless. “Good luck, boy. Remember what I told you.” The man he was to face looked perhaps twenty, twenty five at best and was slim and quite handsome. There were a few scars upon his jaw, but they probably just added to his popularity with the girls, the piercing blue eyes and wavy blond hair only adding more. He was wearing a pair of tight fitting black trousers and his hands were similarly wrapped, a trio of men huddling behind him and shouting encouragements. He smiled and then spit at the floor, his spit exploding into hundreds of droplets before it reached the floor.

[Jack Farrell]

Luck... Fate... You have steered me thus. Ever do I find myself in your debt.

Jack sucked in a deep breath, his head filled with the scents of the pit. The blood, the sweat, the acrid rot of fear seemed to permeate the place. He lent his head to one side, feeling the bones of his neck click as tight ligaments loosened up. Freedom and speed, speed and precision, precision and power. Simple tenets honed by years of cold hard experience and tempered by the fires of battle.

Beneath his mask, he was calm - he had spilled blood before. Within his chest, his heart beat a steady rhythm - fear did not rule. Within his clenched fist, he held death - the power of ruin was with him.

He stood quietly, simply, patiently. Would there be a bell? A gesture of respect between combatants? Would the young noble rush him like a nut?

[Grey Wolf]

Seeing his foe the young nobleman grinned and whispered something to his companions, something that made them chuckle even as he pushed himself forward and stepped closer to the center of the ring. The ring closed behind Jack the crowd that had parted making a wall of bodies around them, the air becoming heavier and harsher in an instant. “Shut up, you lot.” The voice came from a platform above, the muscled woman that ushered Jack inside standing and holding a steel cone in her hand. “Special fight before the big event later. That there is Pagan and he is going against Golden Boy over there. Rules are…. First one who can’t get up is a loser. And try not to kill each other as it poses a problem for me. Now get on with it.” The crowd fell silent as she spoke, but soon their voices rose in a near-deafening roar as the fight officially started.

The other man was young and muscled, though not too heavily. What he lacked in mass he made up in agility, moving and circling the ring with a cat-like grace. Exposing his right side to Jack he held a stance that would fit a swordfighter more than a brawler, though he kept his fists clenched and ready. He launched the first assault too, dashing forward, but not attacking, merely stomping his foot in a feint. Then half a flicker later the attack came, the man’s right fist flashing forward, straight for Jack’s face.