The morning is brisk but sunny and the Butcher’s sat quiet and peaceful on the dusty, winding road. It was the day of rest and so the streets were still quiet from previous night’s late dwellings; a few drunkards still stumbling home.
Choloswag stretched out in the open yard, twisting his muscular body, already strapped in leather armour and a glimmering sword hilt by this right side. A large figure, wearing ring mail, ducks under the door way behind him, clasping a vicious glaive as delicately as a walking stick.
The two nod and make their way up the path to the Church of Chance.
The church was its usual bustling crowds of degenerate old men with their wispy hairs, trailing table from table, looking at pay outs for each and clutching small round chips to their chest. Beautiful elven girls with plastered smiles seemed to dot and flow throughout, offering drinks and other services.
A pink haired man materialises by the two Half-Orc’s side almost instantaneously, having recognised the undefeated pit fighter and curious that Cholo had brought an equally formidable looking partner with him; gold coins gleamed from his pupils.
“Ah, Choloswag, here for another dabble with the pits, I see?”
The Half-Orc was curt and quick tempered, asking for Lucky Lug impatiently instead.
“Lucky Lug? I saw him enter, but you know him, always jumping from table to table, I can send a message to him? How else may I be of assistance?” The pink haired man urged.
“We need map-maker,” replied Cholo.
“Ahh, a Cartographer? Well we sure have those too,” said the pink haired man, “The Church of Chance is accommodating to all requests, for a price of course.”
The two half-orcs made a sideways glance, “What kind of price?”
The pink haired man’s smile grew, revealing pristine white teeth, “Follow me gentlemen.”
Walking with a light step and robes swinging madly behind him, the man leads the two Half-orcs down a dark, familiar passage. Torches light the way down the hall to a room with a steel door. The man turns on the two with both hands up, “Gentlemen! Here are the terms, a duo fight between Cholo… and…” he looks casually at the ring mailed half-orc, “I have no name,” the Half-Orc says.
“Oh…” the pink haired man, looked lost for words for a moment, “the Nameless one!” he concludes.
“Well, the fight is between you two and ‘The Disgraced Knight’ and his squire, Jewie. The terms of engagement – all weapons allowed and defeat is pronounced by unconsciousness for 10 seconds, or yielding. Those are the rules gentlemen, if you win, we shall provide you with what you seek, if you lose, well…”
The two half-orcs nod, and the pink haired man, clasps his hands together in excitement.
The ring was modest, a rough 50ft by 50ft square with steel chains all around the sides. Cholo and the Nameless one stood in one corner as a man in full plate and a young man in leather armour, clutching a spear, stood on the opposite side.
A deep booming voice announces the coming of the fight, the contestants and the rules. But Cholo and Nameless are too busy sizing up their meals to bother listening. A distant gong sounds and the four men begin to circle like wild beasts.
The young man called, Jewie is first to charge. Spear point reflecting the lights above. Nameless engages him, the two sparring at a distance, dodging and weaving out of each other’s blades.
The Disgraced Knight descends on Cholo, a mighty two handed sword swung down hard, scoring a brutal dent on Cholo’s shield, sending sparks of wood chips in all directions. But the man is slow, and for every swing the Knight commits, Cholo places two on the Knight’s side.
On the other side of the ring, Nameless has cornered the young fellow. Clutching desperately at his spear, Jewie makes continuous quick glances at his mentor, who seems to have tunnel visioned and left his squire to fend for himself. The Nameless one sees the spear heads before they even lance forward, gliding left and right, letting the spear hit chinks of ring mail instead. His glaive never leaving the centre point of the poor boy called Jewie.
As soon as the fight had started, it was over, Cholo sees an opening in the knight’s mistimed swing and twists through the two handed sword’s reach, landing a full arc swing on the Knight’s helm. It sends a raucous ringing through the arena as loud as the Gong to start the fight; the Knight keels over and lands on his back.
On the other side, the young squire’s knees give out and he drops his spear. He cowers under the silent dark shadow of Nameless. A wretched, sour stink followed by a greasy brown stain climbs down his pants like weeds as the boy’s bowels release last night’s gruel and trade coin wine. The stench is unbearable, and the boy begins to puke into his own lap, small bits of oaten porridge and light green flecks of meat. He begins to weep solemnly as robed men climb on stage to cut and wedge the helm off the Knight, revealing a ginger man with a pig nose, his front teeth broken. Bits of straggly beard clutch his face like a mother’s love. A loud, wet, trumpeting noise echos from within his armour as the same green sludge leaks through the rusted joints of his plate mail. The robed men cover their face and drag the unconscious body off, leaving green and brown skid marks from the center of the ring all the way to the side, where they drop the Knight into a barrel and roll him off, Jewie walking bow legged beside the barrel, drooling and crying.
The crowd erupts in applause, as the pink man returns to the stage to milk the thunderous calls of Cholo and the Nameless one.
Back stage, while Cholo and Nameless quip about the ease of the fight, another robed man with equally dashing coloured hair approach the two half-orcs, he looks sterner and in more of a hurry. In his hands, he holds two sacks and a small letter, pressed with a red and yellow wax seal.
“Congratulations, Cholo and …” he motions to the Nameless half-orc, “I have no name,” the half-orc replies.
“Oh, um, congratulations on the fight,” he hands the two jingling sacks.
“And this is for you,” he hands Cholo the letter, “it’s from The Don,” he says before bowing and hurrying off again.