(Please let me know if my description of the swords and of the fox)

Another small cheer arose from the crowd as a faun entered. Lithe and nimble, Philomel approached, the soft click of her hooves on the stone became audible as the crowd's cheer died, the peoples' excitement replaced with anticipation.

Seems I'll be fighting acquaintances today, he absently thought, remembering his unexpectedly challenging battle with the boy Fennik. This opponent, however, might be even more challenging, and John felt liquid metal rise to coat his arms and legs, stopping and hardening in a uniform coating of titanium. A gasp from the crowd followed, and John raised his hand, displaying a muscled bicep and forearm. A mild cheer rose from them, interspersed with laughter, and John smiled. If there was anything he learned in his banishment, it was how to fight for coin. And fighting for coin meant crowd-pleasing.

The faun, not to be outdone, raised her arm as well, a white mythril straightsword in her hand, a nearly identical sword in her off-hand (save a slight curve to the thing). They were elegant, costly things, built for lightweight slashing and stabbing motions. So long as she kept with her little bony skewers, she'd have a tough time making the half-giant hurt. He lowered his arm and focused, growing two six-inch spikes at the end of his fists, flattening the protrusions to a razor's edge.

The fox next to her looked up at him, something like recognition and memory in its eyes. The thing was small, especially compared to the faun it stood next to and the half-giant it opposed, but it seemed undeterred, and held an intense, fiery look to match its mildly crimson-orange coat. The edge of John's mouth upturned in a smirk as the faun addressed him. He responded by growing the armor over his head, his vision and hearing flashing black for a split second as the armor somehow adapted, communicating his sensory information unhindered by opacity or substance. The faun would find no spot under his patchwork, soot-stained tunic, or under his thick pants that did not have protection. The half-giant addressed her, placing himself between her and the center of the circle.

"Twice, Philomel. Have you forgotten me already?"

He spread his arms and frowned a little, which quickly turned into a smirk. Honestly he could understand, the first time they'd met she had sold him a lady for the evening. But as Vincent commonly said, "the show must go on!", and so John continued his act.

"Why, I might just cry, friend."

He cut off the rest of his speech, he could save it for later. He shifted his weight to his right leg and propelled himself forward, breaking into full speed another stride later, and aimed a massive, spiked left hand at Philomel's chest. If she was good, she'd dodge it, and if she was very good, she'd hit him back.

We'll see which is which.