Draft 2 – Updated 5 April 2026 (C020/D002)
Toxic gritted his teeth and sneered. “Stupid piece of shit,” he mumbled under his breath, as the stretcher bearers fought to get the lumberjack’s too-long-body on the only stretcher they had to work with. “No,” he barked instructions at them. “Slide him down. Let his fucking legs dangle.”
Frothy bubbles seeped from the chest wound and from the unconscious lumberjack’s mouth. Toxic looked up, squinting at the sun, nearly losing his hat in the process. He checked its angle and then surveyed the crowd. A death would end the day. But this cocksucker wasn’t dead yet. But what about the crowd? How are they feeling? What are the odds I can get this back on track?
It took six of them to get the stretcher up the steps. As the lumberjack’s body went up, the four-man crew pit came down, bearing scrapers and brooms and buckets of fine dark sand. Toxic made eye contact with the bandleader, who was standing by, palms up, waiting for the ringmaster to signal his intentions.
Toxic bit down, blowing a hard breath out of this nose. He lifted a hand, turned a palm toward the bandleader, made a fist, and lifted a single finger. The bandleader let his hands fall. Toxic stalked over to the timekeeper’s table.
“What do you think?” he asked Delmont, removing his top hat and tucking it under his arm.
Delmont’s eyes flashed to the fight card table drawing Toxic’s eyes there, too. A line of five fighters had formed already. Delmont rolled his tongue and screeched out a short sharp whistle. The uniformed man at the table looked up, knowing immediately what was being asked. He formed a fist with his thumb up and started rotating it down. One. Two. Three. Four.
Fuck. Fighters were dropping out. Toxic glanced at Tooplo. She was ready. But if the fight had gone out of the men, there would be no men left to fight her. He needed time to figure out his options. So he found the bandleader again and nodded him into action.
The banjo player sprang to his feet and led the musicians down the stairs. The saloon girls lifted their skirts and followed. They snaked their way past the crew working on the blood stain and fell into show formation at the far end of the pit. What Toxic needed now was minstrel magic. He needed someone to cast a mood spell and turn this shit show around. But all he had today were pickers and fiddle-sawyers and a handful of regular saloon girls.
“I warned him,” Delmont said of the man in charge of the fight card. “Chestnut Dan’s been threatening to put Two Blows down for two years.”
“We all knew it was coming,” Toxic replied. Those cocksuckers. He glared across the pit at the blue boys—the Company men in their fancy blue uniforms. Had any of the blue boys seen the look on his face at that moment, it might have provoked a confrontation. But they didn’t see it, because they were all too busy directing their own hate at the swiner.
“They put Dan up to it,” he said, speaking low to Delmont.
Delmont joined Toxic in glaring at the Company men with lowered eyes.
“They don’t respect our thing.”
The pit crew poured sand on the bloodstain and scrubbed at it with pushbrooms. Tiny particles soaked up the wetness, forming little balls of clay. The bristles of the brooms rolled the little balls around, scattering them, spreading them out, blending them with the balls of bloody old dirt around them.
The blood on the ground after most fights was usually droplets from splatters, making cleanup relatively easy. Pools of blood, like this, were harder. They took longer to deal with. There would be a dark spot when they were done regardless. But the pit crew was experienced. They were good at this: scraping, brushing, pouring more sand over top of it. And by the time the band was wrapping up their second bluegrass breakdown, the pit was ready for action.
Toxic assessed the situation, aware he had to make a decision. He knew the fight card was empty, but he also knew there had not been a big push for the gates yet. The bluegrass and saloon girls had not magically recharged the crowd as he’d hoped they might. The folks in the tiers were still sulled up like a ‘possom. But the regulars were still there. They were waiting for him to work his own magic. They were expecting him to get things back on track.
He needed a spark. He needed something—
“I’ll fight her,” he heard someone say.
Toxic, who had been about to go speak to the bandleader, stopped. He turned back, scanning the direction from which the voice came. A half-dozen turned faces pointed him toward the likely speaker.
“Seems you short on volunteers.”
The regulars in the tiers, conditioned to be attentive to their ringmaster’s movements, hushed the conversations around them.
“Fucking disrespectful,” a Company man bit out, loud enough to draw to himself.
The volunteer, an elf hunter—an elder elf hunter, apparently—reacted with calm self-assurance. “Disrespectful,” he said, “is getting liquored up—.”
“This is my pit,” Toxic interrupted, seizing the spotlight back for himself.
The elf turned toward him. His mouth closed.
“Make your case to me,” Toxic continued, setting his top hat on his head, “or shut the fuck up.”
The elf, standing on the lowest tier, his toes hanging over the pit floor, nodded. “Too Blows came to earn some money,” he said. “Weren’t her fault that fool brought a knife.”
The Company man took exception. “The man who died was a human fucking being,” he snapped. “Weren’t no haffer—”
“He ain’t dead yet,” Toxic shot back, cutting him off, feeling a jolt of tension flash through the tiers of the arena.
The jolt gave him an idea.
“And fuck you anyway,” he glared, turning his shoulders, turning his whole body, to face the Company man. “You in Two Bears, Blue Boy,” he raised his chin, taking a theatrical a step forward.
Voices murmured around him.
This was “the something” he needed.
“Ain’t no humans in this pit. Ain’t no haffers, neither.” Toxic looked up, confident of the audience around him. Heads bobbed in agreement. Some men in grey uniforms rose to their feet, crossing their arms as they did. “Step into this pit . . . you’re a fighter. You either leave a winner or you get dragged out as a loser. Ain’t no other labels in Two Bears.”
The Company man glared back at him. The men with him looked at each other.
This was how he’d get the energy back in the crowd.
“You blue boys don’t like our thing,” Toxic pointed toward the livery, “get on your fucking horses and ride back to Eastbranch.”
*****
LT watched the blue boys carefully. This whole place was technically under their jurisdiction, but Two Bears had their own militia and they did their own thing. He doubted Eastbranch would pick a fight over something like this. If the lumberjack was a deputy, they might have reason to. But he wasn’t. And they were outnumbered.
“My eyes don’t work as well as they used to,” the old fellow who had been stalking Hunter spoke up. “So I won’t speak to the fairness of the fight that felled that other man. Nor will I speak one way or another about respecting his behaviour. But I will say that I travelled for five days from Snowfall to get here.”
LT saw several heads nodding. A low murmur rippled through the tiers below him.
“I brought a big stack of brass bucks to bet with,” the old timer continued. “And if we’re gonna get back to fighting now, I’d like to place some of it on this white-haired old elfer.”
The murmur grew to a buzz.
“Now hang on gotdamn minute,” Toxic raised his voice above it.
He stalked across the ring toward Hunter and stopped in front of him.
“How do I know you’re not both in with the lumberjack?” he asked. “How do I know you’re not running a game on these folks?”
His hostile glare moved briefly to the stalker before settling again on Hunter.
”You seem awfully fucking familiar to me,” he said to Hunter. “If you’ve fought here before, say so right fucking here and right fucking now . . . before anybody places a bet for or against you.”
Heads nodded. Several mumblers seemed to be in agreement.
“You’ve seen me fight,” Hunter admitted to Toxic. “But it’s been a while.”
Toxic sneered. “Under what fucking name did you fight, sir?”
“I fought here under Ghost.”
Toxic’s eyes widened in recognition. Then he grinned. “Well I swann,” he said, swiping his hat from his head. “Why didn’t you fucking say so?”
Toxic gestured Hunter to the open stool across from Tooplo, with a slight but formal bow.
Then he turned to the banjo player, hustling the entertainers from the pit. “Go get Dunn,” he shouted at the bandleader, who was mounting the steps leading out of the pit. “Tell him Ghost is back.”
*****
Boar folk were no stranger to Hunter. Any elf who wanted to enter the service of the Beloved Council had to spend a significant amount of time training as an emissary. He’d spent decades living in their camps.
He knew they were born for this. Hand-to-hand fighting was their magic. It was their culture, a keystone of tribal status. Teachers like Tooplo earned their positions with victories. The reputations of great teachers helped grow their tribes.
This was not a fair fight. Far from it. Tooplo was bigger. She was stronger and had a fighter’s magic. And she had those tusks to work around. Hunter’s only one advantage over Tooplo was that he didn’t need to win.
The young fighter she’d faced previously was needlessly aggressive. The lumberjack, foolish. He would make neither of these mistakes. When Tooplo shifted even slightly to go on the attack, he pushed her back with jabs or kicks. He could not win this fight, but he felt he was experienced enough to survive it.
The fight had barely started when she stung him with a heavy jab. It gashed his lip on the inside and filled his mouth with the sweet taste of sap. The stains on her knuckles after that warned him to stay out of reach.
A short while later, a stoney cross rang his ears and nearly took him down. His knees wobbled and voices groaned from the tiers. Tooplo pressed forward then, using her weight advantage to corner him, trying to end the fight early. But Hunter dodged, twisted past an upper cut, slid under her hairy armpit, and squeezed through to break into the open behind her.
Toopla was a mountain. Her thick flesh, stoney beneath his fists. Hunter landed jabs, cuts, and crosses, carefully avoiding her tusks. He pounded exposed ribs at every opportunity but felt that that was pointless. Like a stout branch beating a granite boulder, his fists were taking most of the damage.
As they circled late in the fight, Tooplo’s colours suddenly changed. Something behind him was distracting her. She glanced at it once. Then a second time. Then he realized it was the sandglass next to the anvil. Ties go to the challenger, he remembered. Tooplo’s time was running out.
Hunter hopped back, staying on his toes—his feet parted a bit wider than shoulder width. His weight shifted forward forcing her to back off.
Her face glowed with impatience. She leaned, itching to move forward, seeking a combination of blows that would bring him to the ground.
Hunter hopped one step to the left, landing in a split step. Then he shifted his weight to his left foot and kicked his right foot into her midriff.
The kick to her stoney guts did no damage, but it did interrupt her attack. It drove her back and stood her up at precisely the moment she was loading up to move forward.
Then it happened again. Tooplo glanced ever so briefly at the draining sandglass behind him. Her impatience grew brighter.
Hunter seized his advantage. A previous kick to her midriff had pushed Tooplo back and left them two steps apart. Hunter was perpendicular now; his right shoulder was pointing squarely into the center of her chest. She was beginning to lean forward as she creeped into attack mode.
Hunter jumped sideways toward her. His right leg lifted as his left foot landed where his right foot had been. His right leg rose over his hip. His chest turned as he began to open up.
Tooplo, who had been loading up for her own attack, recognized what was happening. But it was too late. Switching mid-move from offense to defense, Tooplo leapt forward half raising her left knee in an aborted attack while bringing her hands up to defend her chin. Unfortunately, the two canceled each other out and left her highly vulnerable.
Hunter’s leg rose to shoulder height. His perfectly timed hook kick drove his right heel into the spot just behind her right ear. Tooplo, who had one leg in the air and the other on the ground when contact was made, was knocked a little off balance and was pushed to the side. A razor sharp tusk sliced his britches and bit into the back of his leg.
Hunter’s right foot landed back on the ground, leaking sap. His back was to the woman, whose weight was now on her heels. So Hunter followed his body’s momentum, spun to his left while extending his left arm. Mid-rotation, it made solid contact with her head just above her temple.
Tooplo wobbled, stumbled, and fell to the ground, landing on her knees and elbows. When Hunter finished his half turn, he planted again. Now he was facing her. Taking three quick short steps forward—as she tried to lean back and dodge his attack—Hunter’s right foot connected with Tooplo’s forehead. She jolted backward, falling onto her back, knees split, just as the hammer sounded on the anvil.
“Oh!” cried the crowd when Hunter’s hook kick dropped Tooplo to her knees. “Ooooo!” They cried again as Hunter’s foot connected with Tooplo’s forehead. “Yeah!” cried the old men who all bet on Ghost. “No!” cried the young men who bet everything on Tooplo.
*****
LT raised his arms in the air beside Butcher.
Toxic rushed to Tooplo, slapping her cheeks to revive her. After a few moments, she sat up shaking her head. Hunter squatted in front of her, reaching out, offering his hand—open, palm up.
Tooplo looked from his hand to his face, holding his gaze for a few heartbeats. Her brother leaped into the ring and landed heavily behind them. He approached, towering over both. Hunter looked up into the boar mask without withdrawing his hand.
Tooplo clasped Hunter’s open hand and allowed the elf to help her to her feet. Both fighters bowed deeply to each other. The teacher bowed a second time. Her brother followed suit and then bowed again toward her.
All three walked together toward Tooplo’s stool, where her brother picked up the robe and draped it over her shoulders. Hunter grasped Tooplo’s left hand in his own right and raised it over his head.
“What does that mean?” Butcher asked LT in the deafening roar of the crowd.
LT said something he could not hear.
“What?”
LT held up two fingers with a grin.
This chapter is a discovery chapter, in that we gain a deeper understanding of the tensions between the company men and the people in the town who run the fighting ring and the businesses.
Objective: To gain control of the fight ring and check that the crowd haven’t lost interest. If they lose interest, less money will be spent on alcohol and making bets.
Obstacles: Fighters dropping out of the fight, since the last fighter had a hidden weapon. This will lead to less excitement and entertainment for the crowd. No one being available to fight Two Blows would disappoint the crowd. The ring is in a state of disarray, with blood and bodily fluids soaking into the floor. I wonder if descriptions of the smell and heat could be added to extend the description.
Tension is building between different fighters and their camps. The company men want to see Two Blows defeated and want one of their men to achieve this… no matter what. Hunter has volunteered to fight. Toxic is urging the company men to supply a fighter. The stalker has spoken up too, suggesting the elf should fight.
Outcome: The reader learns that Hunter, Two Blows and her brother have respect for one another. The fight leaves her defeated, but she took the loss graciously, accepting Hunter’s hand and walking off together with no bad feelings.
This chapter doesn’t reveal anything beyond what’s already been given. We learn nothing new internally or externally from Hunter. Two Blows is developed by her gracious acceptance of her defeat.
Final thoughts: “He could not win this fight, but he felt he was experienced enough to survive it.
The fight had barely started when she stung him with a heavy jab. It gashed his lip on the inside and filled his mouth with the sweet taste of sap. The stains on her knuckles after that warned him to stay out of reach.”
I feel this section could be padded out a bit. It quickly shifts from Hunter revealing he is Ghost to his internal thoughts about the fight. He knows he doesn’t have to win. Then it moves quickly to the fight being underway. I feel you could build up a little more tension here. Gain an insight into the crowd’s reaction to the Ghost’s return. Create a bit more tension before the fight commences. Maybe a signal or gesture as to what Two Blows is feeling, given the reputation Ghost carries. She has been self-assured, but maybe a moment of doubt crosses her face? This might be the first contender who could take her undefeated title?
The fight is very visual and descriptive. It’s good and sets the scene, but I feel there could be more internal dialogue from Hunter or a greater sense of the fight. Maybe adding more descriptions of the crowd’s reaction, or maybe the sensations Hunter is experiencing… visual crowd reactions, what he is hearing? Maybe a flashback to his younger fighting days. Is he using techniques that served him well then? Does he feel as capable as he did back in the day?
Chapter progressing: The narrative is progressing well, and it’s a good setting-the-scene chapter. I could feel the buzz in the room and the potential loss of the crowd’s interest. I feel more could have been given as a reaction from the crowd at the outset of Ghost’s fight. Maybe murmurs of people who reveal that Ghost was once a prolific fighter. It could maybe include the stalker waging a large bet on the Elf, showing he has inside information and whether the crowd follow his lead? Have many bet on Hunter? Are they surprised at the outcome? They are clearly excited about Two Blows’ defeat, a change from the usual outcome of the fights.