“Dammit, get it done man!” shouted Jack as he slumped back in his chair.
It had been weeks since his failed attempted at earning a few extra coins, and Jack had spent nearly everything he had deflecting the local law from throwing a noose around his neck and hauling him half way up a tree. The golden haired tiefling pushed himself up out of his chair and tugged on the lapels of his jacket to straighten the lines. This current venture would claw back some of his lost funds until he landed a bigger score. People loved to gamble, and throw in a bit of uncontrolled contraband sales and a knack of manipulating odds and one could make a pretty penny. Jack’s furled face twisted into a broad, toothy grin as he walked to the door and two words slipped from his mouth.
“Show time.”
“Welcome lovers and fighters to the first annual Tournament of the Fist!” Roared Jack to as he thrust his arms into the air to solid cheer that greeted him.
The crowded that gathered were a mixture of citadel regulars and pro-spectators. Like most shows that occurred at the citadel, it promised more than broken teeth and mercy rules. When one’s opponent would be brought back to life, it allowed one a bit more freedom than would otherwise be granted in polite fighting circles.
Jack twisted on the spot and waved his arm over the small rings that had been set up behind him. Each was a standard boxing ring with thick ropes enclosing a fifteen by fifteen foot ring. Spectators were free to move around the outside of the rings, but only the chosen combatants would be allowed to enter.
“Those of you competing listen for your numbers, I don’t want any of you arses to miss your call. For those spectating, go and bet to your hearts content!”
Ring 24 was marked with its namesake in two large blue numbers. The ring was the same as the others, fifteen feet long wide with thick ropes surrounding it and a slightly padded floor. The monk in charge of this ring was an young man with thick glasses and a look of confusion plastered over his face. In truth he had been thrown into looking after the ring after one of the older monks had a meeting with a bottle of Alerar spiced rum. Another monk was busy running around the outside of the ring and calling for numbers 87 and 15 to take their spots.
The rules had been drummed into everyone that entered, ‘No magic and no fancy weapons’. Knives, swords, shields and the like were carried openly by competitors, although a few seemed to carry theirs under thick cloaks for reasons unknown.
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