Bleeding Hearts Don't Beat Long

Slaughterhouse

The Bronze Colony was warm universally, but today was particularly sweltering even nestled beneath the earth in a den of hedonism. Bronze Town was the sort of place to have a lot of such establishments, every corner had a casino and every casino had someone peddling something that would rattle your very soul, or make you catatonic, for the high-end places it could likely be both. Draw your attention back to the subterranean speakeasy, the door was made of steel so thick most drill bits wouldn't even reach the other side. Someone big with a voice crafted through years of abuse to the lungs and moral compass will slide open a viewport, whoever is on the other side would best know the code if they want in. Once you're past the door the hallway descends on wonky steps of wood that had started warped and gotten worse with age. Anyone above 4 feet tall is going to have to crouch to avoid dusting their face with dirt. Inside the actual establishment is ashy air, an artificial fog permeates the room comprised of cigar smoke and dust. There were three distinct segments of the place, a bar stood against the north wall with kegs of moonshine ranging from once to triple distilled. the counter was varnished wood, crowded by drunks barely staying atop their wobbly stools. At the dead centre of the room was the establishment's namesake; the Pig Pen, a slight depression in the floor cordoned off with a round fence covered in assorted carpets. The third segment was a bathroom with two stalls, one sink, and a trough, because despite all appearances the people of the bronze are not animals. Some advice for sticking it out in the Bronze, keep two things in mind, who's in the room and how do you handle them if it becomes beneficial or necessary to do so. A man with natural charm, his blond hair trimmed neatly with a smile so white it could blind. he sat by the Pen, leaning on the fence as he spoke with a another patron, his name was Surya Helios, but he told people to call him Sunny.

"the spindly savage over there, you see him?" Sunny spoke casually, gesturing to one of the fighters waiting for the green light.

"y-yeah, what about him?" Sunny's mark was a younger man with matted hair. The sort of young crook that struggled to think even one layer abstract of a gun to the face, and the sort to frequent this type of venue.

"Just a word to the wise, I seen that kid fight before, up in liberty" Sunny had seen him fight just not in liberty, it was better to keep names recognizable to avoid friction during a scam "and woof, you're better of betting on the Red Dragon to waltz in and win over him" another slight lie, the native was a beast and fought like he was trying to eat the other fighter alive, but Sunny saw no reason to dwell on accuracy. Sunny drifted around the Pig Pen making friends and offering sage advice that would result in the native being a major underdog, making Sunny's bet on him winning worth 20/1 meaning he could leave tonight with 100 sterling in his pocket, if the fighter hadn't lost his fire. with one look at his eyes Sunny was certain they still had it. The Native fighter wore the jeans of a farm hand; cheap and durable, but his canvas duster hanging on the pen's fence was stained with enough blood to suggest an alternative career, on top of the mechanical revolver they had stuffed in one of the pockets. The native was called Zhu and the fighter opposite them had made a very poor decision today.

"alright... go lads!" the proprietor took the last bets before signalling the fighters to go for it, Zhu needed no encouragement as they bolted from across the dusty dirt to launch a knee at his opponent's gut.

Zhu's opponent had 1 foot of height on him and where Zhu hovered around Welter weight his opponent was bordering heavyweight, despite this they could move with unexpected grace. utilising their reach advantage the opponent stopped Zhu mid-leap with a jab to the sternum from their dumbbell fists. Zhu staggers back spitting out white phlegm with each sharp cough.

"Are ya trying to kill or seduce me with that gentle slap!" Zhu mocked as he slipped haymakers. The other fighter was moving a bit sloppy, almost as if they had a bit too much to drink, perhaps courtesy of the ever-magnanimous Sunny but who's to say? Zhu broke the rhythm of consistent dodging by stomping the other man's knee, as they stumbled forward Zhu was quick to bury a few hooks under their ribs, each one shaking his guts violently. While the bout continued the rabble watched on with great interest, some having bet more than would be comfortable to lose, others simply enjoying the blood sport as they batter their lungs and livers with the cheap vices on offer. One patron of the Pig Pen had no interest in the fight even in passing, he both knew the outcome and abhorred the pointless violence. His name was Oliver Norn. Oliver was young, likely too young to be here, but no one was checking ID. His hair was cut choppily, it looked like he had done it with a knife and no mirror, because he did. Oliver wore a cloak of Woven jute; the hood was tattered beyond use while the rest had fared only marginally better. His upper face was covered by a bandage bunched over his right brow to give him some vision through his black eye, glossy like a chunk of hard coal. When another patron tried to get his attention, they spent about a minute saying variations of hello while snapping their fingers until Oliver snapped to attention.