Recruitment
@backswordforhire
Stopping by the occasional arena or two -- “undignified” as one may see it -- was by now par for the course on Ismaire’s standard travel itinerary should she find enough time left for leisure. Scoping out Jehanna’s competition in terms of mercenary skill was as natural a part of her duty as placing one foot in front of the other. It made sense then that she felt she should apply what little free time she had at a place most would advise her to avoid. It was necessary. (And oh, so very fun.)
Despite the fervent protests of those who warned about the consequences to her safety, the eyes of the average patron did not often discern class or status among the crowd. It was a fighter’s weapon they sought after, their strength in battle the measuring stick against their supposed worth. It seemed everybody was here for somebody and as long as you didn’t get in their way, they would stay out of yours. Generally, Ismaire simply hoped she might find someone worth her wile here. A diamond in the rough. Most times she only got a show.
The next pair’s match was about to begin just as Ismaire was about to lose hope of finding anyone to place her gamble with. Not one to waste the day, however, she placed her bet on the man with an eye-patch entering the field for the simple fact that they shared a similar hair color. His opponent looked strong though -- bulging muscles, buzzed haircut, with his spiked club. If nothing else it was always fun to root for the underdog. Yet he made her feel like she could trust his steel by the simple way that he carried himself.
As Ismaire took her seat, the bell signaling the start of battle sounded and the whole arena erupted in cheers.
