Old Blood and New Ch. 01

A casual fist going to his hip, the coworker said, "Look Man, you really don't want to cheese him off any more. Go on to see him."

Any more?

Vyn closed his book and rolled his dark brown eyes. "Alright. I'm coming."

Any more, huh?

He put his book in a pocket and scarfed down as much of his food as he could. Then, he put a hand to his belly and released a satisfied but struggling exhale.

What was the boss angry about?

When Vyn was in the boss' office, he was surprised to find that girl-boy sitting in a chair at an angle from the boss' desk, his face bruised up and even a bit triumphant in the swollen eyes. The boss was standing, and he looked pretty furious. He spat out question after question, but Vyn didn't bother answering, mostly because he hadn't been given time to answer. Only when the boss shut up, seeming to gasp a little and wiping his brow with a light cloth, did Vyn speak.

His face heating, crossing his arms and spreading his legs a little, Vyn kept his posture high. He narrowed his eyes and pierced the brothel owner with his livid gaze. Then he said very quietly, "If you have any evidence against me, you should call the police. You haven't done that, so I'm thinking you're trying to bully a confession out of me." His arms loosened. One stretched out to give a very lewd and nasty gesture to both men in the room. "You're both dumbasses. I'm going to pack my shit and look for a new job." As he turned around and started walking, he even added a firm, "Go fuck yourselves."

Nobody tried to stop him.

Thankfully, he hadn't had too many possessions. His books were the extras, but he didn't mind the weight. He could still carry everything on his back. He merely had to use a bigger sack this time.

The first place Vyn went to was the Fighting Stadium. He'd been on cordial if distant terms with some of the fighters there. They'd sparred with him on occasion in the gymnasium. Vyn asked how to apply to be a fighter there, and someone told him to go to the secretary's office.

There was a great line of men trying to have a chance at being one of the fighters for the tournaments. Either the glory was addictive, the pay was good, or the benefits were cushy. Vyn had enough patience to wait and see. What he didn't have patience for were people that tried to cut in line, as one man tried to do. Instead of outright punching the offender that tried to sneak in front of him, Vyn simply kicked his knee in, caught his body so he didn't disturb the other men in line, and then slammed him onto the floor, right beside the queue. He didn't get up, which was quite disturbing.

Hey, don't want your ass beaten? Don't cut in a long line full of athletic men applying to be fucking fighters in a fucking combat tournament. That's what Vyn thought as he took slow breaths and tried to cool his temper down.

Most people jolted at the sudden tremble in the floor, but most people also didn't do much to help. Nobody wanted to risk giving up their spot in line. An employee eventually helped the limp man, dragging him away and hopefully to a hospital.

Once it was his turn, Vyn was actually looked at, although not in a predatory way. The secretary was a woman, but her eyes scanned him like a physician's. "You've been in the gymnasium before, right?"

"Yes Ma'am," he said.

"Alright. I'll send you off to the manager. He'll set you up."

He had to have a mild physical examination the day after he'd been assigned a room in the dormitories. It wasn't anything Vyn hadn't expected. The job obviously involved physical health, and he needed to be in the best shape possible. Once he was cleared with a bill of excellent health, he was given a few contracts to sign.

Now, just because Vyn wasn't really a city fellow didn't mean he didn't understand how contracts worked. He read each one four times before signing.

Vyn was categorized as heavy-weight. There were three classes in total, light-weight, medium-weight, and heavy-weight. In official matches, the three were not allowed to mix. Fair is fair. And, rather unfortunately, there wasn't a female division of fighters. Vyn was disappointed in that. He'd been looking forward to watching some women fight. They could be so speedy and tenacious. In his opinion, combat was gender neutral, although he understood why most women preferred not to engage in it.

His first tournament match was in a week, and he had to pay an entrance fee. Luckily, the manager was willing to reduce the fee if he helped out with a few chores around the place. Collecting and disposing of litter, replacing torn or faded wallpaper, handing out fliers on the street, all were necessary. Not only that, but some of the fighters didn't mind paying Vyn cash for him to patch up their clothing.

That job reminded Vyn of his parents, and how diligently they taught him so many useful skills.

Vyn was able to pay the entrance fee with no trouble, and the required fighting uniform was cheap, just a fitted pair of breeches and a simple white shirt, essentially a highly underdressed version of what a typical masculine outfit was. Their feet were meant to be bare, and their hair, if it was long, was meant to be braided and tied close to the head. The day before his first match, Vyn braided half of his hair close to his head, and then he paid someone else to do the rest because his arms and fingers tired out. Then he firmly pinned and tied the rest into a top-knot.

Simply participating in the tournament gave a fighter payment, just enough to cover the entrance fee with a tiny bit more. Winning the first match would add a second payment, called prize money.

Vyn had to go against another big man with a ruddy face, ugly too, with his features almost scrambled. Vyn hoped he wouldn't add to the deformities.

A glance at the audience told Vyn that people of varying social classes attended the tournament. He was pretty sure it was the Social Season, so it made sense, although this city wasn't the capital. Up in the best seats, there were people with the most colorful and lavish clothing, like they were attending a fancy dinner party or a ball. They had waiters serving them a variety of food and drinks. More lower class audience members had to settle for a bag of peanuts or dried meats with a cup of either water or ale.

The actual stage for fighting had a huge cage surrounding it. This was supposed to be for safety reasons, but the manager had used it as a gimmick. These men were like animals or something. Yeah. Come see them tear each other apart!

Whatever. The bell was hit. Time to go punch, kick, and wrestle like crazy.

The ruddy, unfortunately ugly man was quick for his size. Vyn smirked a bit as he noticed it, weaving side to wide, ducking, deflecting. Vyn thought the best thing to do would be to tire him out. So, all Vyn did was avoid any attacks.

Well, no that wasn't true. To make his opponent feel better, and to give the audience something to get excited for, he let the ruddy man punch him in the gut once, then knock him to the ground. Vyn used his feet and legs to keep himself from getting entangled, and he launched himself right back up.

When his opponent began to move a little slower, Vyn knew his strategy was working. The ruddy man's performance slowly degraded from there. Vyn was eventually able to overpower him, pinning him to the ground and forcing him to slap the stage's floor three times.

The referee made the announcement. Vyn was the winner.

There had been cheers and clapping before, but now the whole place roared so much that Vyn cringed and put his palms to his ears. He had to look at people's faces to understand that some were laughing at his reaction. Not a single chuckle could be heard over the monstrous noise.

Later on, at the manager's office, Vyn was asked how he wanted his prize money. If we wanted, they could even point him towards a few banks in the city so he could open up an account there. Vyn told them he wanted half of the prize money in a combination of paper bills and coins, a quarter in the form of a silver ingot, and the rest to be invested in a medium sized iron safe he could put all this in. He'd noticed quite a few of the other fighters had their own safes, so why not follow suit?

Just to be certain there was nothing suspicious going in, Vyn chose the place to order the safe and the ingot. He also made sure nobody from the Fighting Stadium was near him when he made the order nor when he picked the thing up. It was heavy. He had to carry it on his back all the way to the stadium.

He probably should've hired a carriage or at least a little buggy, but he wanted to save money. And besides, it was a little funny to notice that people were staring at him. In a way, he was showing off his endurance. It was like a quiet boast to the world.

As Vyn set his safe up next to his bed, he vaguely wondered how much money one would need to earn to move out and find a different place to live. He knew a few higher ranking fighters were either renting townhouses or were downright owners of townhouses. The prize money must be pretty good, but maybe they got money from other methods. Fame could come with this job, and fame opened the doors for other opportunities.

Two days passed.

He was in good enough shape to fight in the next round of the tournament. Typically, there were two or three days between each night's worth of fighting. If Vyn had been announced as physically unfit due to workplace injuries, his rent would be forgiven until he could fight again, and the match would be rescheduled. His opponent for the upcoming match would be compensated too.

There were people hired just for keeping the flow of matches organized. A bunch of paperwork had to be involved. If it seemed that the recovery time was too long, the match would be cancelled and the upcoming opponent would have to wait for another match to be assigned to him.

Thankfully, all medical expenses were automatically covered. The stadium had their own physicians and surgeons on call for anything, even the common cold, no matter the time of year.

No wonder there was always a line of men trying to get into this business.

On the next round, Vyn had to go against a fellow that was probably from a desert country, because his skin was like beautiful chocolate and his accent was difficult for Vyn to understand. They understood fighting, however, and they went at it.

It wasn't too different from the previous match. Vyn outlasted his opponent and eventually pinned him down long enough for the match to be over.

The prize money for this match was only a bit higher than the last, not a whole lot, but just enough to encourage a fighter. Vyn asked for half of the amount in cash, a quarter in the form of another silver ingot, and the rest to go towards his next rent payment.

The next time Vyn went out to eat, he didn't go to the local inn. He decided to treat himself by going to a coffee shop. He'd scrubbed and soaked himself clean at a bathhouse, refusing any treats there. Then he went to that coffee shop to ask for a table near a window. It was raining a little, but it wasn't cold. Still, Vyn wanted a hot drink, but not coffee. He asked for tea, although it was a cheaper variety. He also ordered a sandwich with thin slices of meat which was one of the few items on the menu with actual meat involved. He asked for a buttery scone too.

He'd half expected to be refused service because of his roomy clothing, but most of the employees had recognized him from the tournament and rushed to serve him. Vyn supposed that had been the closest thing to being a celebrity he'd ever experienced. But it was fine, he hadn't been given free food, not even a discount. They'd simply realized he wasn't some filthy beggar, only a fighter that liked baggy clothes.

It wouldn't be enough to fill his belly, but it tickled his senses. It all smelled pleasant and even a bit exotic. The tea had him thinking of far away lands he'd never seen, only read about. The scone was as light as a cloud. The meat in the sandwich was flavorful.

He'd almost feel disappointed once he got back to the inn to buy more substantial food.

Vyn eventually learned that most fighters had other professions besides their sport based one. Some were bouncers, although mainly at higher class places. Some were actually good at making and setting tiles on floors or walls. Vyn once met a young fighter that was a part-time assistant to a surgeon. So, Vyn thought that he should search for a different job too, just in case this fighting thing didn't pay the rent well enough.

He wondered how many tailor shops were looking for workers.

At the first place he went to, an employee took one look at his loose attire and told him to make tracks on the road. At the second tailor shop, he was curtly told they didn't have time for anyone with such rough hands. He could damage silk just by tapping it with a fingertip, or that was what Vyn was told.

Gritting his teeth and looking down at his fingernails, which were actually short and filed well enough, he crossed the street. Then he looked into the window of the building before himself.

Gowns, hats, ribbons, lace, and other girly and frilly things, not that men didn't have their own love of frilly things.

He looked at the shop's sign.

Oh, it was a seamstress shop, technically a combination of clothing making and millinery seemed to be done there.

Vyn stepped on over to the entrance as soon as his brain clicked the information into his head.

He found a combination of women and girls, old and young, some with thick eyeglasses. There were colorful things everywhere, hanging and dangling, even on tables and such. There was also a connected room full of occupied work desks with spools and things. He heard some banging from a different room too. Someone was probably banging a cutting device onto cloth to make scalloped ruffles or something.

Undaunted by all the frothy, girly clothes, Vyn walked up to the first employee he could find. It was a woman of perhaps fifty years, her hair in a tight bun at her nape and her eyes pointed. The expression she gave him was pure suspicion.

"Ma'am," Vyn said after a slight bow, "Are you the Mistress here?"

"That would be right, Sir," the woman said with a chilled voice, reaching for a bolt of some shiny fabric that had spring roses and medallions printed on it. This place might have had a business agreement with a factory that printed images on such material.

Vyn took a breath. "I'm looking for some part-time work here, and I know you might not believe me, but I can sew and embroider almost anything. I'll work on whatever you want when I'm not fighting at the stadium."

The Mistress' shoulder lurched with her judgmental snort, and she looked up to give Vyn a tight smile. "You can't alter your own clothes. How can I trust you with a needle?"

Vyn reached for a drawstring in his light coat. Then, his face quite serious, he pulled and knotted it. In response, the fabric tightened. He reached to the other side and worked at another string. Then, more and more strings, until his outfit was reasonably snug looking.

At the Mistress' surprised expression, Vyn said, "I like my clothing loose, so when I made these things I put the tape and strings right in. Now Ma'am, if you set up a hoop or whatever, then I'll sit down and work at it right in front of you. I'll have to go back to the stadium tomorrow, but when I'm here again I'll keep at it until I'm done."

The Mistress seemed reluctant, but she agreed. She handed him a hoop frame with some white silk fabric attached to it. Then she put a box of spools with different colors of thread in his free hand. Instead of going to a work desk, Vyn took a lonely stool settled it near a window. There, he sat down and examined the threads in his lap. He asked the mistress what image she wanted him to make.

"Try surprising me," she told him.

He nodded and started working.

As people passed the place, glancing through the window, quite a few stopped just to look at him. There was a huge man stitching at a hoop like he was somebody's beloved old grandmother trying to earn some extra coin.

Some of the workers passed in the shop too, and they'd always ask about him, whispering and clearly wondering what in the world was going on. Some of those women would even give the dreamiest sighs, which made sense since his clothes looked much tighter now. One woman, possibly in her forties, approached and tried to start a conversation with him, which would've interested him a little but he was too focused. The poor woman gave up after a while.

Whenever a customer entered the shop, they would also show some curiosity. Why was some brute using a needle and thread? What in the world was going on? Vyn ignored them. He didn't have room to care for their opinions about his appearance. If they wanted to laugh, then go ahead.

One customer, an elderly woman with a high nose, dared to ask him, "My Boy, why are you wasting your time in this place?"

Almost fed up with it all, Vyn quietly responded with, "Ma'am, I have plenty of biases about what a man should and shouldn't do. But this stuff isn't what I worry about. If a man can go and stitch up a manly coat then why can't he make a pretty skirt? And embroidery too, lots of men, even the toughest of fellows, want to wear that stuff when the time's fine enough. Why does another man have to be the one to put in there? Why does a woman have to be the one to put it in a woman's gown?" He paused just long enough to give the sour-faced woman his own version of a sour face. "So I'll do what I must to earn money, like a man is supposed to do."

Unblinking, or mostly unblinking, Vyn stared at the elderly woman until she became so flustered and bitter that she lost her nerve and left him alone.

When the sky faded a bit, Vyn got up and handed the shop's Mistress back her spools. Then, after showing her his progress, he said, "I'm keeping the hoop until I come back, that way nothing bad can happen to it."

It was as simple as that.

Vyn's next match was simple enough. He had to put a bit more force into the work this time. A few more punches, a few more kicks, and he won. More prize money, this time in cash and a few silver ingots.

Vyn wondered how long his good fortune would last. Eventually, there had to be somebody that would beat him.

Back at the seamstress shop, early in the morning, Vyn sat down at a window again, and he worked on his hoop.

It was almost done.

He was back the next day too, and he even took off a shoe, put his stocking clad foot on a windowsill's edge, and rocked himself back and forth on the stool. It wasn't a recommended position for any kind of stitching and he knew it. It wasn't even safe. He received a few raised eyebrows but nobody dared to complain.

The day after that, Vyn went to another match, which he won. More cash, another ingot, and he paid off the rest of the next month's rent. He had a whole month in advance to be worry-free, at least where his living situation was concerned.

The following morning, he spent his last day of his test-like project in the seamstress shop. He put in the last few stitches of colored thread in the hoop, and he presented it to the Mistress.

The image included a sort of frame formed by a variety of objects. Parsnips, green beans still in their shells, daffodils, and leaves, all had been stitched in to make a round shape. Inside this outline, there was an image of a person and a donkey. The person was a farmer guiding a plow while the donkey pulled. There was also a section of blue sky with a bright sun. The subject of wasn't a fanciful thing, but it was highly detailed and colorful. There were even variations of yellow and straw color in the farmer's hat. Vyn had also put some highlights in the plow's metal.