[img]https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/12/Fenced_Square_at_Duck%27s_Cross_-_geograph.org.uk_-_390914.jpg[/img]

[b]Steer[/b]:

[i]{Farmland Hands.}[/i]

Sometimes the most innocent or utilitarian things could be turned into dens of weird and often time insane practices. Case in point here; a rather successful farm turned into the madhouse now. The previous owner had long since moved on, but in a strangely well thought out plan, decided to lease the former farmlands to whoever could afford it. While this usually resulted in actual good honest working people who needed the land for what they did, the most prevalent was not something you’d expect. By the loud crys and the constant grunting and yelps and other sounds of pain and struggling, one need only to zoom in directly to a fenced square to see where the crowd gathered and all the commotion that followed with it. A letal metal bash took place as a body was hurled against a combo of metal meshing and shack-sheets and a cry of enjoyment was given.

It was for all intents and purposes a brawling square. Twenty five feet by thirty five feet, ‘ringed’ in by various assortments of ‘safe’ metal pieces, the grassy ground suiting as a ‘fighters’ mat while one or two tall but thin trees served as both posts or makeshift tactical weapons. It wasn’t the most legal thing, the coppers around frowned on it, but it was far in enough on the former farm-lands to not attract attention. Despite the dried blood stains all over the grass, very few bad injuries had occurred here, and someone who knew the simplest but most useful first-aid and ‘patch-up’ skills always seemed to be around. Betting wasn’t encouraged and frowned upon and despite the violent nature of the ‘Farm-House Rumble square’ as it was called, it was all in good sport, fun even, for participants and those that were there to just watch!

Steer Cottonworth at first, was one of the watchers. He had come here as a little pit stop on a way to a job, heard good things and was surprised at the atmosphere…not to mentioned home cooked but also well-made booze and food. He’d watch three fights, always lifted what he was eating/drinking in approval and kept a warm smile about himself…but he had to admit, after his third beer, his whole body was somewhat wanting in the way only the Rumble-Square could provide. Messily and loudly, though no one heard it, Steer finished his third beer, just as the last fight ended and when one end of the Rumble-Square opened, he slid off his sandals, socks, and blue sweater and stepped right through it. Toes wiggled in the grass slightly, Steer rolled his head a little to pop sections of his neck.

“Steer, Steer Cottonworth, sir, From Norther East America-Ireland.”

Said to the man on a high chair on the right side of the square. A makeshift announcer and referee if you will.

“[i]Weeeellll our next round will include one mister Steer Cottonworth, a passer-buyer from out of town but a hunkering for the food and fighting! Any takers? Y’all know the rules by now; melee and if you got SOME of them ‘powers’ use them lightly or stuff[/i]!”

Steer rolled his shoulders and nodded. Hands clenched into and out of fists and he seemed to sway in a whimsical loose fashion. Go time!