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

[reshapes]

The blow lands with a smack of skin. The body says "Oof," quite loudly.

Let no one say Bartimaeus of Uruk isn't a good sport.

[skulltasm]

The skull clunks against the inside of the jar, echoing the body's oof a quintillionth of a second late. Hard to catch, even if you're looking.

"That wasn't the kisser."

[thereneverwas]

"You don't have a kisser, mate," Barrow says good-naturedly enough, slugging the body hard in the gut.

[skulltasm]

"Your mum would disagree!"

[saam]

The crowd goes oooooh.

[thereneverwas]

[thereneverwas]

There's more stalling, more useless punches, and the crowd riles further and further until the chant is deafening: PUNCH THE JAR.

Clearly having had no effect on the body, and not about to out himself as a Templar in front of a roomful of people by silencing any magic shenanigans, Barrow is compelled by duty to the spectacle: he punches the jar.

His hand breaks, of course, with a horrible crunching sound. It's followed by the inevitable scream of pain and, in this case, rage: Barrow grips it briefly, then, sick of the whole ordeal, swings his meaty arm out to sideswipe the jar and topple his opponent. Assuming the intended effect, he proceeds to kick angrily at the prone form, holding his broken hand off to one side as the other is balled into a fist and wrenching back with each kick to provide extra force.

The Skull-Breaker has gone full beast mode.

[skulltasm]

"That's the ticket! Show him--I mean me--what for! Is that all you've got?!"

The jeering of the skull is unabated by its newly prone status. In fact, it seems to jeer more, right up until--

[saam]

Eshal Fazon is only an inch shorter than The Skull-Breaker, and meets him muscle for muscle. She's also been waiting for this shit to happen. As soon as the kicking starts, she dives into the fray, tackling him from the back with the intention of body-slamming him into the ground.

Whatever Skull's doing here, he can't be hurt. However, the reputation of the ring and its rules, can.

"No fucking kicking!" she yells. "You wanna break the rules, you fucking lose!"

[thereneverwas]

With a loud "oof" Barrow is taken down, only barely managing to catch himself on his good hand before he lands, Eshal and all.

"Fuck--" he growls, "sorry. Sorry." He stays on the floor, not about to resist her when he knows he's in the wrong.

[saam]

So Eshal stands, dusting herself off. She raises a hand toward... what should he call him. Whatever. Leaving Barrow, she goes to take Skull(?)'s hand, and raise it in the air.

"The winner! The Mysterious Stranger!"

The crowd roars.

[thereneverwas]

Barrow picks himself up to a kneeling position and glowers, but doesn't protest.

[skulltasm]

The jar starts to tip off of its supposed shoulders, but his free hand reaches up to steady it nonchalantly.