Engage in a bit of Pit Fighting

{if A Hero of War = 1} You find the Crooked Bloodletter at the place described. A ramshackle shack above a sawdust ring inside a dilapidated warehouse. {else} The Crooked Bloodletter still sits her usual booth, a ramshackle shack above the dusty ring inside the dilapidated warehouse. {endif} She looks you over, eyes straining in the half-light, then cackles. ”Been here before? You look the type. But it’s off-season. I can slot in you in but its slim pickings. Pay’s shit too. But it’ll spare you the qualifiers when we’re back in season. If you’re around then. And if you can stand to beat on rabble long enough. 25 if ya win.” She laughs. ”And 5 if ya lose.”

You agree with a shrug and are told to return come nightfall.

Time passes.

{if The Passage of Time > 95} Your Time in Barenhaven is running out {elseif The Passage of Time > 80} Your Time in Barenhaven is coming to a close {elseif The Passage of Time > 60} You have some Time left in Barenhaven {elseif The Passage of Time > 50} Your Time in Barenhaven is half-way over {elseif The Passage of Time > 30} You have quite some Time left to spend in Barenhaven {elseif The Passage of Time > 15} You have a lot of Time left to spend in Barenhaven {elseif The Passage of Time > 5} Your Time in Barehaven has just begun {else} You are now spending Time in Barenhaven {endif}

The sun does set and she still sits her booth, but below a small crowd has gathered around the ashen circle. Two men, ill-fed and untrained, beat each other for their amusement. One, wheezing from strain, connects his fist to the other's temple. The opponent crumbles and blood sprays as his limp body hits the ground in a cloud of dust.

”You’re up next,” says the Bloodletter. She does leave the booth, reading herself to introduce and guide you.

A giant crystal, bolted above the ring and shining bright as sundered daylight, lights the way ahead and you, for the first time{if A Hero of War = 1} ever{else} in years{endif}, get a good look at her.

Her nose is crooked, broken thrice at the base, and she favours her right leg. A scar runs from the corner of her ruby-red mouth to her left ear. She grins, a sharp smile of brilliant white, and turns. The blood-red dress does not cover her back, a firebreathing serpent inked in black and Sea-blue nests on the vicious marks of the scourge.

You remove your shirt, baring your own torso, and follow her inside the sawdust circle.

”Ladies and Gentlemen!” She bellows. ”Feast your eyes on the fresh meat. Look at the muscles on this one. Come closer, kind Ladies and renowned Gentlemen! See what I have brought you, and PLACE YOUR BETS!”

The crowd murmurs. They sound sceptical, having been tricked before by a healthy-looking shill. The Bloodletter gives you a crooked smile and then returns to her booth. You can see her take the coin, and then you wait, surrounded by the leering masses, for your opponent.

He arrives under cheers, jeers and laughter, a head smaller than you and his eyes glassy from Rose incense and booze. Winter Grease and other poisons have withered his limbs and his breath rattles from inside the diseased lungs.

If there is a signal for the bout to begin, he ignores it. A scrappy ball of lanky bones and spindly sinew barrels towards you, pummelling the air with wild swings.

You sidestep him with ease, and your counter breaks his nose. Blood drips down to his gummy grin, but he continues his attacks. Blow after limp blow flies past you, and each time you hit him back. You knock out a tooth, then another, but he continues his attack. You land a hook on his gut but he, though winded, continues his attack. You connect with his temple and he stumbles. You hit him again, and he finally crumbles.

The crowd hisses, all but a few having tricked themselves out of their bets. But they do part as you approach the booth, blood dripping from your knuckles. You collect your winnings and the Bloodletter’s smirking congratulations. At least her cackling laugh sounds satisfied.

You have gained 25 Taler

You now have {@69 Talers} Taler