He’d been hearing about this place for a long time, but he’d never stepped inside. Skullrender. What a name. Crowded clubs didn’t typically mix well with telepathy, whether they were fight clubs or just normal ones. But tonight? Lorene didn’t care. He had a purpose. A mission. Telepathic shields up and airtight, not even the most belligerent of drunken thoughts could get into his mind.
The Elven Prince didn’t look like his typical self, that night. His clothes from home were all back at his new house in Fibonacci. His sword, his his thread-of-silver cloak, his bag—everything was at the house. The only thing he’d come with today was a small duffel with a change of clothes, and his Hestianite dagger hidden in the bottom, just in case. But even that was checked at the door, bag and all.
Lorene left his shoes at the gate to the cage. He brought the heel of one hand into his solar plexus, fingers pointed towards the heavens, and gave the combat space a brief, stiff bow. He tested the floor with his bare toes—dry; good—and stepped inside.
Today, he looked nothing like a Prince. He wore a three-quarter-sleeve top made of a stretchy, sweat-wicking athletic fabric in a faded slate grey, and linen, tie-waisted, baggy fisherman’s pants of a blue-grey hue. He wore ankle wraps to support his arches, and wrist wraps around hands and wrists both, covering his knuckles, and the scars on them.
Back home, no one wore wraps, unless it was a practice ring. But Lorene was not here for training.
Tucked under his shirt was his amulet, of course, and he needed to wear a second undershirt beneath the first to mute the perpetual glow that emulated from the piece of the Goddess Polaris. Lastly, Lorene’s long hair was braided tightly at the nape of his neck, not a single golden strand out of place.
He hadn’t scheduled a fight with anyone. This time slot was specifically for surprise combatants. Lorene had made sure to place himself near the door to the cage to be the first to step inside the ring.
He needed this. The violence, the striking, the spontaneity. The sweat. The blood, if that’s what it took. He was here to keep himself from hunting down and trying to kill gods.
The Prince narrowed his eyes at the crowd, and cracked his knuckles beneath his tight wraps. Someone had better come in here before he got bored and went god-hunting anyway.
