Fall, Day 10, 514AV
He hadn't seen Tall Johnny near the doors, but Nov knew the man was there, sitting innocuously somewhere in the crowd. The casino's proprietor looked about as physically intimidating as his Akalak guards did human. You could tell the fellow was rich, even without his legend in the backing--elegant clothes, impeccable manners, freshly waxed mustache. Reminded Nov a bit of the harlot, but with more reserved sophistication and less disturbing curiosity.
"Final round!" came the grizzled shout of their referee.
The young merc was drawn rudely back to his present surroundings. Ten foot metal fences caged both him and his sweat-sodden opponent on every side, beyond which a sea of dark faces stared back, each etched in the hungry shades of blood lust.
"You're dead, little man."
The towering figure before him was a popular specimen of manhood, with ice blue eyes, slabs of muscle covering his six foot something frame, and a nose sharp enough to cut through cheese. Golden Errol was the Cage's champion and people's favorite of the season, having defeated all his opponents with singular ease in the past seven days and come out of each fight looking better every time. A wild mane of wheat blond dreads topped his square head like a crown. The sweat on his chest glisten like honey. And his piercing gaze alone was rumored to hold power over every virgin in the city, leading both men and women to lose their imaginations to what must be lingering beneath his loincloth.
Standing a few strides from the reigning King of the Cage, Noven made for a stark contrast. Moderately tall, dark of hair, and completely disinterested in everything but the fight. He'd kept his trousers on but abandoned his shirt in favor of freer movement. Sculpted definitions of lean muscle ran throughout his body, though he was no where near as heavily built as Errol.
Most of the audience had placed their bets on the King. Who wouldn't, after his magnificent performance for half a fortnight? But a few risk takers took up their stakes with the newcomer, noting the vicious look in his rust-colored glare.
It didn't look to the be the glare of a dead man.
Never one for small talk, Noven simply ignored the bigger man's taunt and raised his fists in answer, both hands still covered in gloves. Before the fight, the ref had made sure nothing lethal was in them, completely unaware of the crimson veins that webbed across Nov's left hand. It was a minor miracle he hadn't asked for them to be removed and instead merely felt around the merc's fingers and palms for suspicious objects.
Nov kept the gloves on for the sole purpose of keeping his curse a secret. If the audience knew he'd been marked by Krysus--no, if Tall Johnny himself found out and let it slip to the Daggerhands...
...well, he wouldn't be sticking around the city long enough to find out, that much was for sure.
Up until then, the young cook of Sunset Orphanage and occasional mercenary roaming the docks had been just that. A young man who cooked and sometimes fought in order to make a living. Nothing more. Only a handful of people knew his secret, that he had the aid of the Goddess of Murder and Pain herself to do more than just survive. And that he nursed a vendetta so strong it was all he lived for at this point. Those who had discovered his secret firsthand and couldn't be trusted, he had slain.
But here he was now, ready to face the final round of the match, for once determined to win things fair and square. Noven had come to sharpen the skills of his trade, not to earn glory or money. He could take care of the faint traces of an oncoming headache later; right now, he just wanted to beat this poor sod's pretty face to the ground.
The bell sounded, and Errol lunged.
