12 Vortas 2719
So it was settled, that Jobe would enter the Arena and have five bouts against various vagrants, thrill-seekers, and slaves. He didn't much like the frivolity of fighting for entertainment. He hated it in fact. But given the threat, he could forgive himself for participating in it. And it'd be simple enough to ignore the cheering goons drinking themselves into a poxy grave when he was nursing his wounds and fighting to stay upright. He didn't much like his chances. The only upside was his disability would drive up the value of his early betting for himself.
So he approached the entrance to the large, dilapidated warehouse or mill or whatever it had been before it was the Arena. A set of sentries were standing at either side of the portal leading inward. They granted him a skeptical glance, as he hobbled on his cane, exaggerating his old injury.
The tough-looking bouncer looked him over, and spat out, "A ha'penny for spectatin' on the ground floor."
Jobe shook his head, reaching into the pocket of his overcoat, and pulling out a half-bird coin. This he handed over. The bouncer looked it over, and then thrust it back toward Jobe. "I said a ha'penny brainless bum. Are ya deaf or just daft?"
Jobe refused to take the half-bird back from the bouncer. "I'm here ter fight."
At this, the bouncer smirked broadly, looking to his buddy, as if to share the mirth. He snickered, "Righ'. In ya go then." He stepped aside, and let the ex-soldier into the building, through the black door.
As Jobe passed them by, he could've sworn he heard them mention something about long odds and putting ten birds on the other guy. Linger shrugged, not caring much for their skepticism.
It took a few minutes, but eventually, the latest combatant walked in from his last bout, trailing a puddle of blood behind his boots. He wore a simple Hessian warrior's outfit, with a backsword in his hand. He was big, taller than Jobe and muscular. Still, Jobe thought if it came down to it, he could take him.
But for now, it'd be someone else. Who though, was a matter for the dice. He walked into the Arena's middle area, a fighting ring that was really more of a pit, about two feet deep. Jobe walked in through the divider, and into the pit. There, people were jeering and laughing at him.
"Look at 'em, walked in drunk as a skunk no idea where 'e is! Hah!"
And more of the same kind of comments. Yet Jobe was ready to fight. He had his cane-pistol and a claw hammer. One dead man at a time was how soldiering went, and right now he was back in the war zone.
"And in this corner! We 'ave Cap'n Cripple!" A light wave of laughter rippled through the crowd at his fight name, as given by the announcer. Jeers came in the form of wordless curses and cackling from the men and women surrounding the ring, frantic in their urgency to bet against 'Cap'n Cripple.' Jobe's brow darkened at the nickname. Not the Cripple part even. Any idiot familiar with military ranks could see he wore the two chevrons of a Specialist grade on his jacket. He wasn't anywhere near a Captain. But leave it to the ignoramus' of this shit-darkened cistern to get the premise so wrong.
Otherwise, if anything, Jobe took the promotion as a compliment.
"In t'other corner!" Jobe could hear his opponent coming onto the stage before he could see him. The swarthy man was big, and weighed down with chains worn over his rags. Shackles on his feet and hands. Was this even a fair fight? Jobe had second thoughts. The poor guy was probably a slave, someone fighting for shelter and supper. Yet, not everyone came into slavery honestly. Sometimes you had to piss somebody off, and rightly so, to end up caged. But it happened just as often that people were forced into it innocently, and against their will.
"We 'ave Ironshirt, t'Slave Strangler!" Well, there went the theory of an innocent man pressed into gladiatorial servitude. But maybe it was just a fanciful name. This hope also was dashed when the beast of a man showed his teeth and hissed spittle at Jobe. He lumbered into the pit, swinging the chain connected to his manacles like a flail over his head.
There was no shaking of hands or congratulations on making the fight. They were in for a blood-letting. A dance that began with the first flail of the big beast swung his chain at Jobe.
"Shit." No way to block it with his cane, it'd just whip around and hit him in the face anyway. So he bent his knee, dodging the chain and prompting his old wound to numb the joint to immobility.
Thankfully, the Ironshirt wasn't all that great an aim, and he was able to veer over to dodge the vertical strikes made with the chain as a follow-up. The Ironshirt adjusted to the miss by swinging low with the chain. Jobe was pushing himself up on his cane, the chain flexed at contact with the cane and then across his ankle. The ex-soldier kicked free from the chain, booting it forward until it winded its way around the cane. Once that was done, he lifted the cane, feeling the strength return to his knee as he straightened it. The Strangler's chain fed into the action with the cane, until it wrapped several lengths across the surface of its rod.
Jobe bound the chain with a twist of his cane, pushing it toward the behemoth so that he wouldn't be able to flail with the chain for a few moments. As he did, with the other hand he slid a ball-peen hammer from his tool belt, intent on cracking the man's skull. Yet, as he was twisting the cane to perform a bind, he lost his leverage over Ironshirt. He lost his grip on the cane and fell to the floor.
The ball-peen hammer was still in his grip however, and this he hurled at Ironshirt. Ironshirt was busily trying to extricate his chain from the bind. The hammer hit him full in the sternum with a crack, which distracted him momentarily.
The bind wasn't as intricate as Jobe had hoped, and with a throw of his arms, he unfurled the chain, and soon enough it was swinging over his head again.
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