Wretha hastily caught the golden coin in between her palms, almost missing it entirely in the poorly lit basement. She brought it up to her eyes, giving it several turns while examining the design closely. It was shaped oddly, not like the current currency, not like any currency that Wretha was aware of. Her fingers traced the deep serrations and the inner square at the center, but what struck most odd to her was the floral pattern.
From her side she heard the start of an argument as Mordrag stood up from his seat to confront another man. She came in late into the conversation and didn’t quite know what had started the heated exchange but it quickly ended with a challenge in the ring. The female found herself curious about this large hulking pile of muscles on legs. Surely a man of his size had seen his fair share of fights, but the same thing could be said for his opponent. At the very least it would be intriguing to watch given that she had never had the pleasure of experiencing a fighting pit before. Her attention wavered, however, drawn to the coin twirling around her finger. It nagged at her something fierce, like a fly that just wouldn’t shoo away. She recognized the pattern but it was hard to say where she had seen it before. She raked through every lesson she could remember and every book she had read; it was a slow progress as the fight proved a worthy distraction.
The fight reminded her of something almost primal, savages going for each other’s throats and with each fist that connected Wretha flinched a little, imagining how much pain each caused. To say she was a little more than disgusted was an understatement when Mordrag walked away leaving a bloody heap of a mess laying in the sand. She glanced back to Rask’s coin trying to avoid direct contact as the large man slumped back into his seat next to her.
“Now I'm almost as purtty as you, eh Sweets?”
Against her better judgment she glanced up at his blood smeared and sand crusted face and a small smile formed on her lips against her will. “Truly.” She laughed.
Thena was up next, and Wretha scanned the She-elf’s from head to toe. She had mentioned that she preferred her fist as her best weapon, but that simply left Wretha wondering- how good could fist be against real weapons. In Mordrag’s case he had nothing but brute strength behind each blow, but Thena wasn’t nearly as big as him. She was formidable-looking, no one questioned it, but Wretha had her doubts of how effective her tactic would be.
Ms. Thorne was proven wrong when Thena left her opponent with two broken arms and a shattered ego. After the fight had finished, it was only then Wretha noticed she had been sitting on the edge of her seat caught in all the excitement of the fight with the rest of the crowd. Leaning back she wiped the small beads of sweat that had began to form on her forehead. The candlelight was beginning to turn the basement into a melting pot and the rowdy crowd was not helping either. And suddenly it hit her out of nowhere, her eyes shooting back up to Rask, before she knew it she had leaned forward to grab a hold of the man’s wrist. “The Verbis De Mortem.” She gasped, “The Chant of the Dead.” From just the look in his eyes she could tell her guess was on point.
“A legend, Mr. Rask, surely you don’t mean to seek the cursed treasure of the Sayamir Peaks.” Wretha returned the gold coin back to its owner as a young man, named Howland, picked a fight with a red haired female.
From her side she heard the start of an argument as Mordrag stood up from his seat to confront another man. She came in late into the conversation and didn’t quite know what had started the heated exchange but it quickly ended with a challenge in the ring. The female found herself curious about this large hulking pile of muscles on legs. Surely a man of his size had seen his fair share of fights, but the same thing could be said for his opponent. At the very least it would be intriguing to watch given that she had never had the pleasure of experiencing a fighting pit before. Her attention wavered, however, drawn to the coin twirling around her finger. It nagged at her something fierce, like a fly that just wouldn’t shoo away. She recognized the pattern but it was hard to say where she had seen it before. She raked through every lesson she could remember and every book she had read; it was a slow progress as the fight proved a worthy distraction.
The fight reminded her of something almost primal, savages going for each other’s throats and with each fist that connected Wretha flinched a little, imagining how much pain each caused. To say she was a little more than disgusted was an understatement when Mordrag walked away leaving a bloody heap of a mess laying in the sand. She glanced back to Rask’s coin trying to avoid direct contact as the large man slumped back into his seat next to her.
“Now I'm almost as purtty as you, eh Sweets?”
Against her better judgment she glanced up at his blood smeared and sand crusted face and a small smile formed on her lips against her will. “Truly.” She laughed.
Thena was up next, and Wretha scanned the She-elf’s from head to toe. She had mentioned that she preferred her fist as her best weapon, but that simply left Wretha wondering- how good could fist be against real weapons. In Mordrag’s case he had nothing but brute strength behind each blow, but Thena wasn’t nearly as big as him. She was formidable-looking, no one questioned it, but Wretha had her doubts of how effective her tactic would be.
Ms. Thorne was proven wrong when Thena left her opponent with two broken arms and a shattered ego. After the fight had finished, it was only then Wretha noticed she had been sitting on the edge of her seat caught in all the excitement of the fight with the rest of the crowd. Leaning back she wiped the small beads of sweat that had began to form on her forehead. The candlelight was beginning to turn the basement into a melting pot and the rowdy crowd was not helping either. And suddenly it hit her out of nowhere, her eyes shooting back up to Rask, before she knew it she had leaned forward to grab a hold of the man’s wrist. “The Verbis De Mortem.” She gasped, “The Chant of the Dead.” From just the look in his eyes she could tell her guess was on point.
“A legend, Mr. Rask, surely you don’t mean to seek the cursed treasure of the Sayamir Peaks.” Wretha returned the gold coin back to its owner as a young man, named Howland, picked a fight with a red haired female.