THE FIRST RULE ABOUT FIGHT CLUB IS THAT THIS ISN'T FIGHT CLUB

[saam]

WHO:Eshal and EVERYBODY, you're all invited. You don't have to have expressed interest oocly or icly before now to participate!
WHAT: The first inaugural Riftwatch underground boxing tournament... thing.
WHEN: Feel free to hit this up whenever, presumably it's taking place at various times over the month.
WHERE: The back room of the Boar & Bat pub.
NOTES: Violence! Gambling! Anything worse than that, I'll let you know.

The back room of the pub is no special beauty, but it's workable. A dirt floor, a bar with drinks and a bartender, and a circle drawn in the middle with chalk. Eshal is on the side, acting as referee for matches, and moving through the crowd in between bouts. She's convivial, crassly cheerful, and, at 6'2", impossible to miss.

But perhaps most notable is the sign stolen from the front, and pinned to the wall, in clear view of the crowd. Beneath it, someone has scrawled into the wall: LEAVE SOBER.

(credit to Beka for the wonderful sign!)

THE MATCHES

It's time to fight! The rules are simple, as outlined by Eshal and her booming voice at the beginning of every match:

No kicking. No punching below the belt. No hitting while they're down. Stop when the referee says so. First person who can't get back up after a five count loses.

She also introduces each participant to the crowd. She gives their name (or whatever name they gave her, if you want to go under a pseudonym), and a fact about them, perhaps ...a little made up. Nothing terrible, but always something to spice up the match. Are you fighting an elf? She may imply you have something against elves. Are you rich? She may imply your opponent has a grudge against Hightown. Little things.

(Feel free to godmod what she says as needed for comedy or plotting, but keep in mind it wouldn't be outright derogatory or obviously insulting. Just some slight implication to spice things up.)

THE BETTING

Are you a bookie? Are you making bets? Time to make some money.

Feel free to handwave who's fighting or who's the crowd favorite, what the odds are, etc. Don't get too bogged down in the details. Just remember: People love betting, and bookies get a cut. It pays to know the odds.

For those betting? Sometimes you win big. Sometimes you lose. Try and be polite about it.

THE SPECTATING

It's time to just sit back and watch the fight. Boo or cheer. Who's your favorite? Your least favorite?

Or maybe you're here for another reason. Gossip, making connections, pick-pocketing... Plenty of people here, plenty of connections to make... or you could just get drunk.

IN GENERAL

Hey, just have fun. In the future, there might be signups or more complex structures for the fights, but for now, let's just be chill and punch each other senseless.

Top level and comment around, fight whoever you want or handwave; there are presumably NPCs fighting and betting, make them up as needed for your threads. Please note if you're okay with threadjacking and etc.

Let me know if you need Eshal to step in as a referee (PM, whatever)! And note: She will not be fighting, just making herself very visible as the ref.

Comments

eshal fazon | ota | threadjack away.

[saam]

a. BEFORE THE FIGHT.

She's getting ready for the next bout. You're here to fight. She needs to get shit in order. Leaning over, she's all grins, sharply friendly.

"Gimme your name," she says, "and some shit about you. Y'know, where you're from, your job, something. People need a reason to cheer."

She gestures to the crowd. They're waiting.

b. DURING THE FIGHT.

Somebody done goofed. How did you break the rules in the ring? Below the belt? Kicked? Doesn't matter. Soon you'll find someone's sizable strength grabbing you and yanking you back.

"That's not in the fucking rules."

c. BETWEEN FIGHTS.

You have to have breaks between matches, so people can buy drinks and make bets.

You can find her at the bar, downing something that probably isn't rotgut. "Double my bet on the Nevarran." She says, grinning. She turns to whoever's next to her at the bar; they happen to be you. "What do you think?"

d. WILDCARD

[go for it, dude.]

c.

[justashotaway]

"Which Nevarran?" she asks, frowning as she glances up from where she has been examining the woodgrain of the bar. (She did not come here with coin, having failed to consider whether she would be thirsty, and she is loathe to go back to the Gallows now.) As far as she can tell, there are several to choose from in attendance.

a

[kalt]

She tilts her head and smiles darkly. Oh yes, it might be about time to tell this wretched, mouthy Qun-translator her name, and a few tidbits about herself.

"Karoliina," the name has the ring of properness to it that doesn't suit Carla at all. "But you can tell them it's 'Princess', if you insist."

Would the crowd like the pet name, like jeering at it, or laughing at how it also did not quite suite the Avvar woman shedding her outer layers of leather armor and fur to get into the ring and sneer at the lowlanders.

"From the cursed hold, where we keep lowlanders as pets and make trinkets from their bones, when we've finished with their flesh."

Wow, sounds fake.

c.

[sulahnan]

At the moment that she's about to answer, the crowd roars, making it practically a necessity (don't argue) for Athessa to lean closer just to be heard. Luckily, from her perch on the bar itself, the height difference isn't an issue.

"Rather see you in action." Purposefully vague. Yes, she'd rather see Eshal in the right, beating the snot out of whoever goes against her, but action covers all manner of sin.

a

[thereneverwas]

"Barrow," comes the answer, with an appropriately cheeky smirk, "I'm a scoundrel who shouts at babies and robs widows." The less actually known about him, perhaps the better; either way, he's more than happy to be the Heel in anyone's hero story.

laura kint / ota

[justashotaway]

hit somebody! was what the crowd roared

Laura understands the rules set before her: No claws. No feet. But she has never been especially interested in punching people. All that leads to are bruises that--while they fade from her knuckles in an evening--annoy her.

And that's why, when Eshal says they may begin, she leaps at her opponent with the intent of knocking them flat to the ground. Pummeling will be more effective from that vantage point.

there's always room on our team for a goon

She watches the other bouts with a scholarly sort of interest. Having decided she does not want to waste any of her small savings in the pub, she neither eats nor drinks, just sits there, possibly with bruises blossoming over her face, and stares at the others' footwork and jabs.

Very, very occasionally, she might comment. "His foot is wrong."

but what's a canadian farm boy to do

[Laura's going to fight at least once, maybe more than once! She's otherwise going to lurk and observe, which I realize might not be terribly exciting, so we can absolutely do other stuff as well, if you like! Please feel free to pm/plurk/disco me to discuss as needed.]

[swordproof]

"He does not know how to balance himself."

Six makes the comment idly, her own eyes flicking over the people fighting as she judges their form. She had been well taught in the past - soldiers and Adrian both, as well as the handful of Paladins that had passed on their teachings in her travels - and she knows when someone is failing. Her lips twitch for a moment before she turns her head to look at the woman beside her.

"Did you wish for your hurts to be treated?"

flint, ota

[katabasis]

pretty as.
Spite? Please, he hardly knows the meaning of the word. And as he'd said to the event's organizing - if he cared to watch people punch one another for sport, he hardly needed to look farther than the crew of his own ship.

It must therefore be every kind of happenstance which finds Flint in the back room of the Boar & Bat somewhere toward the evening's halfway point, having taken a seat practically beneath the posting with his own face and name on it. The floor of the makeshift ring is flecked with spit and the cast offs of bloody noses, and there's been enough drinking done and punches thrown that the volume of the assemblage has risen to be heard like a muffled shout from the street. Exactly when and under what circumstances he'd manifested there and who he might have arrived with are all unclear, but he has possession of both a bottle and cup and so clearly his reputation with the barkeep can't be as bad as all that.

Or maybe it's worse. Or maybe--

Crack! say knuckles and flesh. A whoop rises from half the spectators with the right betting sense. Flint pours himself another glass from the bottle.

wildcard.
(he's not fighting any of you losers, unless your name is luwenna coupe)

[saam]

At some point, Eshal finds him. She'd kind of been looking for him, since she got someone to read the sign, laughed her arse off, and stole it.

The fights have been good. It's been amazing to be back in her element in a way that doesn't rile up that old panic. As a result, she's a bit sweaty, a bit bloody, but completely alive. It's clear in her eye, her voice, even the way she holds herself. She feels electric.

She finds Flint, finally. She stands there, staring for a moment, face stuck in a greedy grin. "Good," she says in a voice she hopes Flint recognizes. "I was hoping you'd be prettier than the picture."

ALSO: i do what i want

[kalt]

"You're the captain who isn't supposed to be in here." The resemblance to the poster is un-fucking-canny. Perhaps, based on her show for the evening, it might seem as though "the Princess of the Avvar" was here to make something of that. Her entirely languid approach, however, belies this.

"Did you come to keep an eye on things?" her smile is easy to take as insulting.

[hornswoggle]

"It's a charming likeness," John says, lowering himself down beside him. "I'm thinking it would look well in your cabin aboard the Walrus."

What John does not say is that this night has been good for the men. Flint must know as much; they've both been very aware of the restlessness among the crew. What hunting they do is not quite enough.

He holds his cup out as someone shrieks in the ring. That's going well, it seems.

hello

[limier]

"Not so bloody as Minrathous," This underground fight club doesn't have Nell in the ring. She doesn't wait for invitation to sit, the bottle in her own hand crooked toward him in greeting. "She has a hand for it."

Her expression is steady, for someone drinking without a glass. Without uniform, either, or sign of rank; anonymous in the trappings of Kirkwall's idle. She could be anyone, if anyone walked like a soldier and smelled like spent lightning.

Not anonymous. Just striving.

[doneisdone]

"GO ON," barks a low woman's voice, punching a pointed fist in the air as she plunks into a seat nearby, crossing one skinny leg over the other as she begins to thumb through a veritable pile of betting slips. Teren is doing well for herself tonight.

Glancing to one side just to make sure nobody's going to try and lift her winnings, she catches sight of Flint and smirks. "Thought you weren't allowed," she observes.

karoliina o nidhold | ota

[kalt]

A villain to behold
She's not the biggest Avvar you've ever met, she's compact and wiry, but the marks exposed from beneath all her leathers and furs when she strips down into more boxing friendly attire show the time she's spent fighting the biggest Avvar you can imagine. The most interesting of her marks are a pair of burns on the backs of her shoulders that look like flattened angel wings made out of scar-tissue. The result of one of her more interesting scuffles with her own brother. She'd given him his own presents in kind.

She lets Eshal introduce her as the Princess of the Avvar, let's her make the threat that she might take any of those she defeats back to the Frostbacks to live in a cage. Her smile is wolfishly confident in a way that does not undermine the tale.

This first night, much of wins come from the simple process of getting under her opponent's skin. She's good at it, a mix of precise insult and sexual flirtation, backed up with heavy fists and good movement. Early on, she makes a show of dragging the defeated ones out of the ring and placing them by the entrance, as if making a pile of her winnings.

But it is all of show. She's more interested in doing something which pleases the translator than anything else.

Around
It's more obvious how much of her performance in the ring is play acting outside of it. She's still sharp and her smile is still dark, but she sits back languidly at the bar and flirts with the things that interest her in a much more mild manner than her strut out in the spotlight.

But her propensity for insult is still there, especially if you make it too easy.

Wildcard
[ surpriiise meee ]

https://i.kym-cdn.com/entries/icons/original/000/024/196/sign.jpg

[hornswoggle]

THE SPECTATING

The sign is certainly noted. If anything, it's apparently delighted the handful of Walrus men who have made their way in and mixed into the crowd. John's considering his odds on stealing that sign at the end of the night.

While contemplating petty theft, John's followed his usual habit. This isn't a night as usual, but he still finds himself a seat, a good drink, and observes the comings and goings. The fights themselves aren't interesting him, but there's a crowd, and John likes to be in the midst of the crowd.

"Placing a bet on the next bout?" John asks, leaning his weight forward onto his crutch. "I've heard there are fairly good odds on this pair."

WILDCARD

[ do whatever, i'm down. ]

:*

[swordproof]

Six finds comfort in someone she recognises, slipping up to hover at John's side for a moment, not engaging in the urge to say something to fill the silence. He is good company and a good keeper of her secrets, for all that he had been forced to bear witness to in her life, the complications of being a visitor to her memories. He is her friend, even if they are colleagues as well, and Six respects that and enjoys his company.

She does not comment on his crutch. He'd likely not enjoy that.

"I was never one for betting," she admits quietly. "But perhaps I shall bet on the sixth round."

derrica | ota.

[tender]

A BRAWL

Derrica squares up in the ring, bouncing on her toes. As she'd waited her turn, the alternate shouts and applause from the crowd had made her nervous, but she doesn't feel it now. She's vibrating with anticipation anyway, waiting for Eshal to say the word.

Sure, she's supposed to be fighting the person across from her in the ring, but Derrica still flashes a bright smile at them. We're all here to have a good time, right?

POST-FIGHT

There's blood on her face. She can taste it in her mouth, even after she's collected a glass of sweet-strong alcohol. Maybe she could find a healer, but it doesn't feel especially urgent. Her braid's are coming loose, and she can feel aches and bruises each time she moves, but it doesn't dampen the glow of satisfaction left in the wake of the fight.

She's lifted a bottle from the bar, perched on a stool presumably to watch the proceedings. She alternates between sipping and holding the cool glass against her swelling mouth. Still, she grins at anyone approaching.

WILDCARD

[ derrica's going to fight a few times, and be generally hanging around otherwise!! do whatever, i'll roll with it. ]

[galvanising]

"I don't know many mages who are good with their fists," Nell says from the stool behind Derrica. She'd been turned the other way at first, in conversation with a couple of men who've just moved back off into the crowd, and twists back now to face the ring and its recent occupant. She's not whispering, but her voice does drop a little on 'mages' to keep it from carrying.

She's got one hand looped through the handle of a tankard of beer, and gestures with it in the general direction of Eshal, head sticking up above the crowd across the room. "Did you tell her when you signed up?" A beat and then she adds with a smile, "I'm not looking to rat you out, just wondering if I need to lie or not myself."

Barrow ota

[thereneverwas]

FIGHT fight FIGHT fight FIGHT

Here he is, the participant built like a brick shithouse and, when he's not smiling, about as scary as one after a night of collective binge drinking. Knuckles wrapped, shirt off, Barrow has already taken down one or two opponents with relatively minimal effort, and he's ready for more-- but if anyone steps in who's too small, or exceptionally female, they might get a shake of his head and a raising of his hands in surrender.

general carousing

Drinking liberally, making bets, playing cards, talking shit: Barrow is someone you want at a party, because he's quick to get loud but exceedingly slow to anger. He can be found here all night, having an excellent time on the whole.

Im dragging the skull in with me on this im not sorry

[reshapes]

The figure who steps into the other side of the ring is, for better or worse, neither too small or particularly femminine. It is, however, hard to say exactly who they are thanks to the cowl wrapped around the fighter's head and shoulders. They're tall, muscled in all the totally human places to be muscled, and if the general shape of their head under the cowl is weirdly and uniformly cylindrical then-- well, maybe that's why the cowl's there. The mean streets of Kirkwall don't always breed to prettiest specimens.

Under the cowl, safely tucked away from watching eyes, is a perfectly average pair of shoulders to go with the rest of the perfectly average body. On top of those shoulders, instead of a head sits an impenetrable jar with a possessed skull in it. But again, that's not important. No one has to know.

Similarly, questions like 'Hey Bartimaeus, how are you speaking if you haven't got a head with a mouth in it' aren't worth asking when he's already gotten to the trash talking portion of the evening: "All right, you big ugly slab. Lets see what you can do against a real fighter, eh?"

A little flat? Maybe. But lets be honest, this isn't really his kind of sport when you get right down to it. He's just doing this to prove a point.

carousing-ish

[unshut]

At some point after Barrow wins a fight and retires at least temporarily from the ring (shirt optional, thank you), a woman appears alongside him with a spare drink. Fitcher passes it to him, her own mug in her other hand.

"Consider this a thank you from Julius, my debt to whom I can now pay."

here for carousing

[tender]

His next round is intercepted and delivered by a somewhat rumpled Derrica.

"You could have fought me, you know," she tells him, though she comes down well within both categories: too small and exceptionally female. Her tone now is mostly teasing as she claims the stool beside him. "I'd have been better sport than the jar."

ellis | ota.

[heorte]

SPECTATING

Acclimating to Kirkwall after so long on his own, with nothing but sporadic stops in populated areas and mostly darkspawn for company, is going to be a challenge. Ellis' presence at the fight is partly for the entertainment, and partly to hasten that process by sticking himself in a crowd.

He finds a spot with his back against the wall to observe, moves slowly through the crowd by turns, eventually shoring up against the bar.

"Which of them are you putting money one?" he asks the person closest to him, gesturing vaguely at the ring. They're all strangers to him, and he doesn't have anything to bet. But might as well make conversation.

PATCH-JOB

"Need someone to take a look at that?" is all the introduction Ellis gives. It's a fight, people come out of the ring a little worse for wear. He's holding a dented cup but his expression is intent. He might not have any bandages, but he can make sure your nose isn't broken.

SPECTACULAR SPECTACULAR

[sulahnan]

"If I had money," Athessa says, craning her neck to look at her options. She hmms and clicks her tongue against her teeth. "I wouldn't bet on any of them."

She shrugs and offers a tight-lipped smile. "The odds aren't steep enough."

six | ota

[swordproof]

THE SPECTATING.

There’s a part of Six that had stalled at the door, at the sign, wondering if she now somehow counts as a pirate; she works for Flint, does she not? Working with him, with the others, people she recognises, assigning herself a position on their ship… Perhaps she ought not to be allowed, perhaps she should turn her back and leave. Sarenrae would likely look down on her with some frustration if she engaged in fighting for the sake of anything but redemption, but she can see it in only one way as it stands: the need to get rid of her anxious energy, the need to strengthen her skills, to train with people she doesn’t necessarily know.

Instead of joining in straight away she watches, seeing the betting take place and letting herself judge the other competitors. She doesn’t necessarily stand a great deal taller than a lot of them - she’s higher than six feet herself, but the bulk of her muscle makes her look larger, more threatening - but she thinks she might be able to win at least a few rounds. She is strong enough, smart enough, at least in fighting, and had been well trained. She wonders, absently, if magic is allowed, though she fears that might be somewhat unfair; as much as one can be fair in an underground fighting ring.

Slipping to one side, she stands, hesitating, before she crosses her arms and watches. Her hair is tied up in its bun, her gaze is set and stern and she appears like a dangerous, unfriendly bodyguard to some unknown noble - at least until she decides she might take part.

THE FIGHTING

Six appears a formidable foe for anyone who wants to take her on; wearing a cotton shirt and breeches, her muscles showing as her sleeves roll up, her head tilted with a set face and a jaw sterner than an angry schoolteacher, no one would suspect her for the soft heart she actually is. She knows the rules (no kicking, not that she is adept at that, stop when told, hold yourself to a decent standard) and she means to obey them, as she obeys all the rules given to her, but she does not intend to appear anything less than stern and stoic, to give away any of her misgivings.

That would put her at a disadvantage.

It does not help that she thinks absently of Adrian, a man with a clear weakness for the dice, for betting, curling his fingers around her hand and laughing as he bet on sixes, rolling them time and time again, pushing her hair behind her ear and saying, soft and gentle, my lucky six! -

Breathing out, she steps forward into the ring, prepared to tackle anyone who might wish to take her, who might wish to attempt to survive her as she is, ready and brimming with energy.

WILDCARD.

( Come and find her after the fighting / drinking water / etc, or ping me for something personal! )