PM to join [Tall Johnny's] Blood Sport (Mattias)

[Baelin Holt]

9, Winter 519 AV

Despite watching the fight with an intensity that’d put a hunting predator to shame, Baelin still wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to be seeing.

“Hoooo shyke, did ya see that!?” The woman sitting next to him had no such problem.

“He’s finished,” the man seated on her other side claimed, “No one can get out of that.”

Baelin’s frown dipped a touch further as he stared down into the pit. Two young men were wrapped around each other, rolling together on the hard-packed dirt. One―bronze skinned with a trimmed beard―was on his back and had his arms hooked together over the other’s shoulders. And the other―with a wiry build and what looked like a nasty sunburn across his shoulders―had his head tucked in and arms close to his sides. The guy with the sunburn had his feet planted and looked like he was actively trying to stand up, but Trimmed was like a lead weight holding him down.

“Oh!” the man lilted in surprise. And then Sunburn was suddenly wailing on Trimmed. His right arm free, Sunburn hammered his fist down onto Trimmed, every fiber of him all joined together in goal of bashing Trimmed’s brains in. Timmed bore through it and held on tight, squirming in what looked like an attempt to regain whatever hold he previously had.

“What a miss,” the woman jeered, “He had that.”

Whatever Trimmed was trying to do wasn’t working. He finally let go and curled up instead, his arms wrapped tight around his head, legs tucked in, and any pretense of a fight gone in a last ditch effort to minimize the pummeling he was taking. After a painfully long tick of hammered fists, Sunburn finally pulled back and threw his arms up in a show of victory. He bellowed a roar, veins on his throat straining as it carried across the arena. And the crowd cheered with him. Both the woman and man that Baelin had been eavesdropping on hooted and hollered, some people stamped their feet, and others let loose deafening howls.

While the crowd watched the victor as he climbed the cage and rose his fists high in the air, Baelin couldn’t help but stare at the man on the ground. Blood stained the dirt under him. And―when he finally rolled onto his back―Baelin could see it oozing from a nasty looking cut under his eye.

Was that just from getting punched? It must have been; this had been an unarmed match. Baelin hadn’t ever seen someone’s skin literally split open with a punch before, and he couldn’t help but wince. With all the stupid fights he’d thrown himself into, it was lucky that he hadn’t learned that firsthand.

Baelin leaned back and stared at the ceiling. What was he supposed to do? He’d come here in the hope that he could learn a thing or two by watching more experienced fighters, but he was getting next to nil by just watching. No, he was the sort who learned by doing.

Which was a problem. Because everyone here was so petching good at fighting. Even the woman sitting next to him―a tiny scrap of a thing that looked like she could be snapped in half like a twig―had been able to follow that fight. Shyke, she could probably kill Baelin before he’d even realized what she was doing. Didn’t matter that he was probably twice her weight and had at least a head of height on her, she’d still kill him. That was just how these Sunberthers were. The whole lot of them; fighters through and through.

Whatever the woman and her companion were seeing as they watched, Baelin most certainly wasn’t. That last fight had just been a mass of limbs until one of them emerged the victor. This whole trip was a waste; he wasn’t going to learn anything here.

The woman flagged one of the roaming staff members to place a bet on the next fight, and Baelin turned his attention back to the pit. The loser managed to walk out under his own power, but the dirt remained stained with his blood. Rubbing the palm of his hand, Baelin watched as the staff continued to go about taking bets, and the next two fighters entered the pit.

[Mattias Vaulk]

9th of Winter, 519 A.V Sunberth Mattias Vaulk This wasn't a place that he came to frequently, but the sheer raucous was enough to draw him into it, it was as though some kind of power went through him as he mingled into the crowd he felt their excitement as they howled and stamped their feet but felt his annoyance at being jostled and from the offense to his ears, but there was nothing for it, it was just the way a crowd was, so he did his best to get used to it, tuning it out and moving through them to get a good view. When he did manage to get a decent sight of the spectacle he settled down, using his quarterstaff to lean on as he watched. It was a fist fight between two men, right brutes they looked like which meant they'd belonged in Sunberth, they were dancing on the sands sizing each other up with a quick jab here or a kick there. It all happened quickly, testing each others reaches; their arm lengths and reaction times, eyes bored into each other as they waited for the next move. The one guy with a birthmark on his shoulder had a longer reach, he suddenly went on the offensive quickly throwing jabs and punches at the Ginger, forcing him back against the edge of the arena before bursting into a flurry of combinations; striking at his right side then uppercutting, followed by a left hook, then two jabs and punch turned into a right hook, followed by a left uppercut and then ending it with a three punch to his right side again. All Ginger could've done was protect against the fury of his opponent but managed to get in a few punches, mostly jabs at his stomach but they weren't hard punches and had little effect of the man, what saved Ginger was the amount of effort it took Birthmark to get into that rhythm had cost him some stamina, as soon as he'd finish the three-hit to Gingers stomach he had backed off to an arms length to regain some composure, likely he was losing the tempo so decided to finish it before stepping away with a smug look. Ginger meanwhile was visibly hurt, and mad, the lad was red in the face - or more red anyways, considering all the freckles - and was breathing heavily though likely not from any sort of fatigue, but rather the boiling volcano of frustration at being forced into a corner like that and Matt knew from looking at him that he was going to do something that'd change the make up of the fight quickly, probably something dirty. Ginger lunged forward like a snake, aiming a devastating punch at Birthmarks nose, the wind up would've given him a lot of strength, he was practically putting his whole body weight into it, it was a silly amateur move... Except... As Birthmark brought up his arms to guard his face, Ginger suddenly dropped his arm and landed his fist square into the mans thorax, there was a visible change in Birthmarks posture as he crunched forward, his guard lowering before stumbling back and heaving as the air was struck out of his body, he regained his breath right quick but Ginger didn't give him time to get back into a proper stance, he wrapped an arm around Birthmarks neck standing slightly behind him and pulling up. The two flopped up and then down onto the ground as Ginger tightened his arm around Birthmarks neck, strangling him, using his legs to restrain him. Birthmark kept throwing punches behind him and for the most part succeeded, but Ginger just kept his head down and kept tightening his noose. The crowd was ecstatic at this point, more so than before they were shouting and screaming from angry insults at Birthmark, telling him to stand up or get free to the joyful taunts of those who had bet on Ginger goading everyone around them. Whatever the case, it was over. Matt wasn't a wrestler but he could tell that Birthmark couldn't free himself, it was already too awkward punching over your shoulder but he couldn't move his body anymore, with Gingers legs wrapped around him and his body underneath, Birthmark simply couldn't get a solid ground to push off from, he was stuck, but admirably kept fighting to get free, at least until he went limp. Even over the cries of the crowd Matt thought he could hear it, the disturbing noise of someone on their last breaths. Was this a fight to the death? He wouldn't put it pass these Sunberthians to have such things, they shank'd each other on the streets daily but he felt somewhat more disturbed at the prospect of blood sport. Whether it was or not, the crowd continued to howl, with even one enthusiastic petcher screaming so high his voice went from regular to almost child like, "Rip his head off! Rip it off!" The blood lust was rampant, and Matt did his best to ignore it as he watched the death show go on with Birthmark starting to jerk; any thought towards the fight gone as he began to panic, that animalistic desire to escape death overtaking his entire body, frantically pulling at the arm causing his demise, he seemed to have gathered some sense back as he started tapping Gingers arm conceding his defeat, but the freckled lad just ignored him and get squeezing, the crowd somewhat died down in anticipation as Birthmarks eyes fluttered and his body stopped moving, then roared the loudest when Ginger threw him away and stood up raising his arms in triumph, as he was taking his victory lap Birthmark jerked awake after about ten ticks, but decided to just lay there and take a few deep breaths of glorious air as Ginger relished the feeling of his opponents defeat. Matt scanned the crowd as the two fighters departed. Ginger smug and Birthmark shamed, and found one looking down at the sands with a thoughtful expression, someone who wasn't caught up in the fervor of the mob and didn't seem to be placing bets. He was a well built man with a block face and dark hair, someone Matt wouldn't want to get in a fight with but if he did, could probably outsmart him. Yet the fact that he didn't place a bet on the next match and was staring so hard he might end up petching the dirt in the pit made Matt think that he wasn't a usual spectator, he was here for some other reason, perhaps a friend or family member was fighting? Maybe he was fighting himself and was studying his opponents? Maybe he was a ganger, which would make sense for a pit fight such as this, who knew how many rigged matches there were? Whatever the case when someone stood out like that you kept wary of them though it wasn't Matts business, he kept an eye on him; just to be safe.

[Baelin Holt]

Instinct was a funny thing. It operated on a level that Baelin couldn't ever really hope to understand. It ran in the background, never revealing its mechanisms to him nor clarifying why it wanted him to be careful with someone. But there was no denying that it ran. Whether it was to warn him of someone dangerous, or to make him look off in a direction of a potential threat: instinct acted.

Baelin was glad of it. Because if he hadn't suddenly turned to look at some spot in the crowd, he might not have noticed the guy staring at him.

As soon as their eyes locked, Baelin froze.

His first instinct was to look away―and for a fraction of a tick, Baelin did just that. His gaze snapped away from the guy before he was able to reign conscious control. He didn’t want to be looking away from whoever the petch this was. No, he wanted to stare right back. If Baelin was about to have a problem with someone, he wanted to meet it head on.

And so Baelin snapped his gaze right back up and zeroed in on him.

The stranger was a curious blend of young and old. With definition to his face, he looked a man. But then he also had the wiry build of a boy still filling out into manhood. That could be explained by poor nutrition, Baelin supposed. A likely enough event in Sunberth.

Why had Baelin caught the stranger’s attention? Did he just get marked again for theft? Shyke’s sake, Baelin was so sick of getting robbed. If this guy wanted to mug him, then he’d better hope he knew what he was doing. Or else Baelin wouldn’t even hesitate to introduce his hammer to the guy’s skull. A nice heavy hit, hard enough to leave a dent in that messily swept-back hair.

The next fight began, and the clang of steel on steel told him that this one was with weapons. But Baelin barely even noticed. He was still locked in on the guy. Petch this, if the guy had a problem with Baelin, then Baelin would go figure out what it was. None of this guessing crap. Baelin wasn’t clever enough to waste his time with that kind of thing.

Baelin got up―much to the annoyance of the guy behind him, who shouted for Baelin to get the petch out of the way―and quickly worked his way out of the seats. Turning around to make his exit to the back of the amphitheater seating, Baelin jogged up the stairs to cross over to the section of seats where the guy was sitting.

Whatever this petcher’s issue, Baelin would tackle it head on. No more getting robbed by people marking him as just some blacksmith who couldn’t defend himself. Nope. He’d kill the petcher first. Baelin glanced back over to spot where the guy was sitting, slowing down just long enough to see his target and begin his route to his goal.