Zef piped up, “...Is there a betting limit?”
“We run on a ratin’ system, the maximum bet ‘gainst a given fighter is the fighter’s ratin’ or the house limit, whichever’s higher,” affirmed the old man, pointing to a chalkboard behind the bars. “Just so happens that we ain’t got the board out today, got damaged last week, I’m pretty sure you should be good to bet up to two-hundred gelt or equivalent ‘gainst him, an’ the house limit’s fifty. If y’want t’be sure I can have the barkeep bring the book out.”
Before she could reach behind her back to take out the tablet and begin coin-counting, Zefaris cut in with audible eagerness accompanied by the shuffling of fabric and the metal grinding of an overfilled purse: “One-hundred and eighty seven gelt, against the other guy.”
The barkeep came up asking Zef’s name and after he received his answer he looked the coinpurse over, he took the purse into the back, pouring it out onto a table against the left-hand wall and deftly counting the coins, stacking them into neat little piles. He sectioned them off with a small wooden ring before taking a piece of paper, writing on it, and affixing it as a label. It read “Zelsys”. He then wrote down something in a hefty tome. No register, nothing of the sort. Just a trusted individual to manage it all.
Zel looked at the old man with a question on her tongue, and her gave an answer before it could be spoken, “Yeah yeah, you’ll get a cut o’ the winnin’s from our bets as well. Can’t expect you to fight fer the sake o’ a bet meant fer me n’ not give ye a piece o’ the pie.”
Once more did the barkeep return, but it was the smell of what he brought that made her turn her head. It had this vaguely meaty, bloody smell, almost like broth, and was contained within a small brass cup. There was no foam or bubbles, thankfully, and the liquid itself looked pitch-black because of the opaque container.
“Just kick it back. Doesn’t taste bad, but drinking it slowly is like cold blood soup,” warned the barkeep, and Zelsys took his advice. He was right, but he had left out the fact it was perfect blood temperature and had a consistency that altogether made it feel like she was drinking the vital life force of an animal. There was also a powerful sweetness that cut through on the aftertaste, accompanied by an almost alcoholic warmth, but not quite, closer to some weird sort of spiciness. No other immediate effects were felt, save for one intangible sense of something stirring deep within.
The question of whether there was chicken blood in it crossed her mind but she chose not to ask it, already being certain of the answer and not really caring. Not-Quincy took the empty cup from her and in turn handed over a small roll of linen, which she passed to Zef and held out her hand. Without a word exchanged the markswoman took to wrapping Zel’s hand, and as this went on they heard one of the doors in the pit opening, followed by its gate, then feet in the sand and a boisterous, curiously-accented voice calling out with amusement: “Where is the one I am to fight in Berga’s stead? Are they not here?!”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Berga sighed, standing from his seat and walking over to the edge, looking over it as he called: “She’s here, just you wait!”
“How long?” the man in the pit shouted back jokingly.
“Not a tenth as long as y’made me wait last week! I’ve still got sand ‘twixt my arsecheeks from sittin’ there fer half an hour!” Berga barked back with the same joking tone. At this point, a notable fraction of the patrons turned their attention to the pit, some standing from their seats to go look over the edge. Moments later, the wrap was finished as Zef closed her hand into a fist, returning a nod when Zel looked at her. She reached back to liberate the Butcher’s holster from her back that she might entrust it to her counterpart for the duration of the fight.
Into the pit it was… Or so she thought. Just as she turned around she felt Not-Quincy’s hand on her shoulder, a simple question issuing from his lips: “I need a name and something to say about you. Fake names are fine, but I’d advise against fake titles or feats.”
“Zelsys Newman, Beast-slayer and Locust Exterminator,” she said. He nodded and scuttled away with visible hurry, prompting her to take her place in the pit as he did so. And so she did, this time in truth. Zelsys swaggered over to the pit, taking note of where her opponent-to-be stood and vaulting over the edge so that she landed opposite of him. The landing was lighter than she was used to, as she had left her leg-plates at Riverside Remedies.
Somehow his skin came across even paler than that of an Ikesian, for not a single spot of redness or pinkness could be seen anywhere upon it. His shirtless chest was criss-crossed by bulging blue veins, muscle outright visible through it in some spots. His jaw was wide and thick, his forehead broad, his brow thick and his eyes deeply-set. It was like this man’s head was built for taking punishment and breaking apart boulders.
He stared her down with a look of friendly eagerness, as an amplified crackling came through the loudener-cone at the bar and from it issued the sound of Not-Quincy’s voice doing an over the top announcer impression.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for this evening’s headlining match, with a quarter-year’s wages on the line for both sides! On the barside we have a well-liked newcomer, Willowdale’s own descendant of the tundra-striders! You know him well for his steel jaw and pulverizing right hook, Jorfr Hulson!” exclaimed the exaggerated announcer voice. Hulson looked around at the people that now surrounded the pit, stopping to nod and smile at a few of them.