[b]YD 171 - Moonsday 12 of Foundation[/b]

Kontina bustles with a glut of newcomers, holdovers, and prisoners. Every dock is booked and the streets groan with bodies. Pickpockets slip through the crowds, preachers and similar con-artists draw crowds to their corners, armed guards stand at the doors of every shop.
An exile Troll and a trio of Shades sing pirate shanties for coins. A snake-dancer balances on a wood pole above the press and deftly catches tips from the air. The crowd parts for a Vampire and her entourage. 
Bright and beautiful designs are displayed on artificial skin in the windows of a tattoo parlour. A gunsmith cries her wares. Frying murkbeast and spiced pork scent the air, fighting the stinks of sweat and smoke, the perfumes and cloying sweetness from a chandler's stall. The chatter of these people thunders like a tide in the great ocean of life.

Chwegwn and his Lybarim accomplice thread the throngs toward the Arena, carrying a small ransom in recently acquired gemstones. Kira is waiting for the next payment on her guns. One more job, after this, and the debt is paid - or so she said. At least they are very fine guns.

Meanwhile, in a small cell beneath the Arena, Cold Hands waits with a serenity that makes the guards avoid her. Rows of dark alcoves ring the walls, smelling of fear and despair and blood. The cacophony above is muffled but audible. Caged beasts protest their captivity and throw themselves against the walls where they have not yet learned resignation to their terrible fate. Now and then the floor vibrates slightly with the languid motions of the Arena's prized monster, an immense slime affectionately called Big Wet Willy.

Big fights on the docket for today.