There is no sign above the door telling you you're in the right place. But this is Dockside. That's how things are here. Someone told you. So you know this is right.
You knock once. A metal window slides back with a thunk. Two yellow eyes peer out at you. Maybe you know the password. Maybe you slip the guy a gold coin or two. He opens the door.
You don't hear the noise until you're down the hall, down the stairs, and through the open doorway. Then it hits you. The sounds of a crowd. Shouting, drinking, the meaty thunks of fists hitting flesh, the loud clash of metal on metal. A magic spell flashes and for a moment you can see the whole space of it.
Men and women of all races packed around makeshift rings, surrounding fighters facing off. There are no wards here. The concrete floor is stained with blood. No mats. No ropes. No padding. Sometimes cardboard is set down to soften the blows. People don't die here. Usually.
There's not much seating. A few steps lead up to a platform along two sides of the room. You can find a better view here. Set your beer on the railing as you watch. If you can find an open space.
There's a bar at the back, but you better have cash on you. No credsticks, no credit, no tabs. Pay as you go. There's no seating here either. You're here to watch the fights, right"
You'll also need cash if you want to place a bet. Old Salty is in the corner sitting on an overturned bucket, his white hair peeking from under a ratty sailor's cap. Beside him is a chalkboard with a list of names. Nothing says what the names mean, but the regulars know. That's the leaderboard. Want to get your name up there" Better get a fight.
Put your name on the sign-up board. Wipe the chalk off your hands. Someone puts a beer in your hand while you wait. "Good luck, kid," someone says. "You're gonna need it," they laugh.
Welcome to The Hold.
You knock once. A metal window slides back with a thunk. Two yellow eyes peer out at you. Maybe you know the password. Maybe you slip the guy a gold coin or two. He opens the door.
You don't hear the noise until you're down the hall, down the stairs, and through the open doorway. Then it hits you. The sounds of a crowd. Shouting, drinking, the meaty thunks of fists hitting flesh, the loud clash of metal on metal. A magic spell flashes and for a moment you can see the whole space of it.
Men and women of all races packed around makeshift rings, surrounding fighters facing off. There are no wards here. The concrete floor is stained with blood. No mats. No ropes. No padding. Sometimes cardboard is set down to soften the blows. People don't die here. Usually.
There's not much seating. A few steps lead up to a platform along two sides of the room. You can find a better view here. Set your beer on the railing as you watch. If you can find an open space.
There's a bar at the back, but you better have cash on you. No credsticks, no credit, no tabs. Pay as you go. There's no seating here either. You're here to watch the fights, right"
You'll also need cash if you want to place a bet. Old Salty is in the corner sitting on an overturned bucket, his white hair peeking from under a ratty sailor's cap. Beside him is a chalkboard with a list of names. Nothing says what the names mean, but the regulars know. That's the leaderboard. Want to get your name up there" Better get a fight.
Put your name on the sign-up board. Wipe the chalk off your hands. Someone puts a beer in your hand while you wait. "Good luck, kid," someone says. "You're gonna need it," they laugh.
Welcome to The Hold.