a wager or two

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The crowd reeled back as one of the men in the ring was thrown back, stumbling over his feet but not enough to take him out of bounds. Vico could barely see the fight as it was going on, lingering near the stairs leading to the barracks basement. The mercenaries were crowding around the ring as if there were a courtesan strip show going on in the center, and no doubt, to some of them, the prospect of a hot-blooded fight probably offered the same level of intrigue. He could barely see past the line of their shoulders - unlike the Assassins, these were all broad-framed, large, stocky men, wearing heavy armor and heavier weapons at their waists, waving thick arms in the air as they cheered on the combatants.

No doubt, Adamo was the underdog here if it was such a mercenary he was fighting against. Although Adamo was taller than Vico (which really wasn't as much of a feat as one would have thought), he was still much smaller than even el Maestro himself, let alone such weathered, burly soldiers. By necessity, an assassin's build was naturally more lithe and quick-footed, after all.

A chorus of "Oooohs," swept through the crowd. Perhaps a particularly showy blow had knocked a contestant off his feet? Perhaps it had been an underhanded move? (Though these men were honorable, they were still not above using such tactics.) Perhaps it had been a jaw-dropping, acrobatic, complicated maneuver with insurmountable grace that had elicited their awe, but ha, thought Vico, rolling his eyes, as if Adamo would be capable of it, as much as he would have liked to be. He huffed in amusement to himself, shifting his weight from one foot to another, simply waiting for the spectacle to end so that he could collect his bet money and be done with it.

Comments

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Adamo had much different tactics than the mercenaries in the guild - he had learned much from watching el Maestro's effective hybrid of fighting skills and stealth abilities, even if he leaned more toward the latter. While it confused his opponent at first, he was quickly getting the hang of it, putting Adamo at a disadvantage. His leaps still outwitted the mercenary's own speed, slow with the heavier weight of his muscles meant for brute strength. (Adamo almost looked puny in comparison with his leaner physique.) The fight was largely even, but the mercenary's hard blows were beginning to wear at Adamo's stamina.

The fight was still lasting quite longer than the usual bouts would have, with two skilled opponents at each other. Somewhere along the way, though, Adamo noticed more anger than exhaustion building in the man's face. As if that wasn't clue enough, his strikes became harder, quicker bursts of energy. Adamo was already panting, sweating coating his torso. Something wasn't right here if his stamina wasn't winning out against one of these bulky, war-oriented idiots.

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Adamo woke up extremely groggy. He had fidgeted the whole night when the pain would escalate in particular; even got up a couple times to walk and distract himself, but not much helped. Eventually he finally fell into a deep sleep from pure exhaustion, settled on his back, an arm across his chest. He had slept in until the next evening, when hunger roused him from his sleep. Adamo (and his stomach) groaned as he sat up, eyes still closed as he ran a hand through his hair. (Some parts had dried blood still in it, lost in the deep auburn.)

Current missions: find food, find new clothes, and bathe. And maybe find Vico.