Ms. Mercenary is shifting uncomfortably in her seat as a rather overzealous looking woman in a pinstriped pantsuit sets a rather vicious looking dog in the adjacent spot.

  “Look at my darling sitting all comfy next to you! We must just be destined to be friends you~ After all, canines are a great judge of character.” A wide, toothy grin is beamed rather than fshed at the muscle for hire.

  Whatever. Just a common psychopath, nothing to wonder at, Ms. Mercenary consoles herself. That was the sort of pce the fighting arena was.

  Filled with rich, decadent sin and poor, desperate mongrels, the pce was a man-made circle of hell. This was the Capital where all the lowlife and highlife came to mingle in the sensory pleasures of the United continent.

  A cursory gnce around reveals figures decked in clothes fine enough to be worn to a Temple festival. Patrons wearing masks with feathers and jewels bedazzle the onlooker with the reflection of fire within hanging nterns of bronze and gss.

  The bolder members of the audience are bare-faced, not bothering to hide their identities. Of these, two noticeable categories can be identified: those unimportant enough to not be recognized anyways, and those rich and powerful enough to silence those who dare to question them.

  Adult employees of the colosseum travel between the rows of seats with baskets and betting slips. Small children dressed in spiffy clothes wander the pce attempting to sell small trinkets, flowers or pastries. A small smile appears on Ms. Mercenary’s otherwise hard face as she recalls…

  Wet. A wet, sloppy tongue brings Ms. Mercenary’s gaze downward to her p, where the monstrous dog is now slobbering.

  Disgusting. Gently scooping her rge, calloused hands under the dogs chin, she scoots the creature back into its own spot. “Come on pup, get on over. There, there, there we go.” Finally, the head is resting on its paws rather than her legs. She lightly flicks the damp nose and nods her head. “Hmph. Now stay there.”

  Betedly remembering the owner of the now peacefully pced pup, Ms. Mercenary gnces up from where she is leaned over. This results in her having to tilt her head up and slightly sideways to allow the longer strands of her wolf’s cut to avoid blocking her vision.

  The owner in question is a pale-skinned woman with rose-gold toned hair and, now, a pink, girlish blush gracing her cheeks. She would look quite sweet except for her shark-like grin.

  Poor mistress is struggling. Her grin is stretched and bit forced and unnatural. Moments before, she had been preparing to apologize and move her precious companion away from the dy but was a step too te. Now, she is flushed with a different sort of embarrassment. Nothing was more attractive than seeing such a strong looking person show such tender care to animals, at least in her opinion.

  Not that she was suddenly rendered an idiot or anything. Ms. Pinstripe straightens herself up. She still remembers what she was here to do. Natural attraction, bodily urges, and all that hulbaloo came second. Acting all flustered helps to lowers others’ guards, and pying up what is already there makes the mask seem all the more natural.

  She respond to Ms. Mercenary’s gaze. “Oh, I’m so sorry for my dear little one. It’s the first time we came and you must remind Ember of the kind city knight that gave her a bone earlier.”

  Touching her face, she continues on in a rambling manner. “I was so happy to see there were seats left. You look like you’re strong enough to compete in any sort of sparring match and come out on top! Are you here to watch an apprentice compete or maybe a mercenary guild member?”

  Taking the opportunity to stop this encounter from continuing, Ms. Mercenary points across the distance to the pit below, where the challengers are being assigned sparring numbers and being introduced to the competition bracket setup. “I’m trying to listen.”

  The shark tooth grin widens a bit more in frustration.

  Both strong, bloodthirsty looking women strain their ears listen in to the instructions below above the cmor of the excited crowd.

  “Ok, so” the colosseum employee expins to antsy street dwellers, gruff veterans, and dazed newcomers. “We’ve got about 50 competitors here. To shorten things, we have a group rumble.”

  “Five groups of ten go onto the floor at a time. Each of you have a number pinned on your back and white ribbon around your wrist.”

  “Lose the white ribbon and you’re disqualified. Untying your own is surrender, pulling one off someone else means eliminating that opponent. The st person left standing from each group immediately gets sent to the Semi-Finals.”

  “The rest of the lot still able to stand and fight will go through a series of one v. one fights to earns the other five spots in the Semi-Finals.”

  “Got it? No, well. Doesn’t matter. Fight until you drop. If your number is on the board next time I see you, you go to the next round. If not, see your way out. Most likely we’ll be carrying you out, though.”

  AnnouncementRumble A #1-10

  Rumble B #11-20

  Rumble C #21-30

  Rumble D #31-40

  Rumble E #41-50

  Silnarion, decked out in their own simple but expensive mask and silken getup, was quite the odd one out. Rather than competing in a fighting ring, one would think they were prepping for a ballroom dance competition.

  A thin paper with a block printed 13 was pinned on their back with four little pins. Silnarion was a bit bothered that this put small holes in the shirt, but luckily the weave was of the type that the strands could be put back in pce with a bit of effort. These were not the thoughts one would expect a first time fighter to be having.

  There were also not the thoughts one would expect an up and coming Sect Leader to have.

  To be quite honest, Silnarion is in a bit of a bind, perhaps best described from their own perspective.