Niska was getting up there in years. His thirty-seventh birthday had just passed (spent on a very calming trip to Kyoto, one of the few places where he wasn’t a wanted criminal yet). Pretty soon he would be forty. Being completely honest, Niska hadn’t expected to live this long, and he probably wouldn’t have if he hadn’t dropped out of the mercenary game. Five years ago, Niska had been in the peak of shape, truly embodying his title as the Juggernaut, but it had been some time since he’d seen combat. If the 25 year old Niska could see the current Niska, he would be disgusted by such a “weakling”. He wasn’t a tank like he used to be, but he could still hold his own and then some, that Niska knew for sure was true. But to go from such a massive man to a smaller and more peaceful one was strange to the ex-mercenary who had only ever valued strength.
And it was this gnawing feeling of weakness that had pushed him into fighting tonight. Niska walked down the dark steps from his apartment to the shop, listening closely to the commotion already bustling downstairs. He emerged from the magic bookcase and saw people streaming out of the fireplace and down the secret passage way to the basement where the fights were held. It was a bigger crowd than they'd had in a while. Apparently the Ministry’s “secret” (he scoffed) investigation wasn’t enough to deter even loyal grimlins. Some of them even looked like students. Was Hogwarts on a break right now? He couldn’t remember. He’d met a few students recently who had escaped to
Grimli by flooing from Hogsmeade. Niska wasn’t a stickler for rules, but some of them he had to send back on account of them looking like they’d never seen blood in their life.
Grimli had closed down a few hours ago, the shutters pulled and the doors locked, the thousands of knick-knacks laying forgotten in the green glow of the fireplace spewing forth more spectators. He made his way to the secret passageway, muttering “bicycling feline” (the current password) and walking down the stairs. The basement, which was charmed to be much bigger than it could possibly be from the outside was already packed, laughter and exuberant shouting filling the crowded arena along with the smell of firewhiskey and cinnamon-roasted almonds (which nicely covered up that sweaty, musky smell the ring always seemed to have).
Niska easily cut through the crowd to wooden ring, hopping over the barrier and feeling the dirt ground under his feet. The entire basement was laden with different scents and taste, a rainbow gradient of magic creeping like a fog around everyone’s feet, and swirling like a tornado toward the ceiling where it had no place to escape. Niska didn’t like being in such crowded places since everyone’s magic would mix together in a nondescript mess and it made it harder to pay attention, but there was really no getting around it. At least in the ring it was only him and his opponent.
He shed his heavy jacket and took off his boots, storing them in the little cubby within the ring. As Niska surveyed the crowd that was screaming and pulsating with unbridled energy, he begun to wrap his knuckles in a long strip of clean white cloth bandage. He didn’t like fighting bare knuckles if he could help it. The split knuckles and scraped hands the day after were seldom worth it and screamed “I was just in a fight” to anyone that he came into contact with.
Across from him, he saw his opponent get in the ring. Leifr Trickett was a regular at
Grimli, and Niska had watched him fight many times before. The man was good, very fast and very strong, not to mention younger than Niska by more than a decade. Trickett was well on his way to the top, a few more fights and he would go up against the current reigning champion. Niska could already imagine the amount of money he would make on that fight, though it was a ways away. Tonight’s fight would be purely for fun. Leifr was supposed to go up against Cassia Grodd, the violent ex-convict from Azkaban, but she was called away on some matter. With one fighter missing and people already coming to watch the fight, Niska had stepped in.
Word seemed to have gotten out that Niska and Leifr would be fighting against each other and suddenly the ring was more crowded than it had been in a long time. Niska looked at Leifr, his eyes flashing amber as he scrutinized the much-younger man. Leifrs magic was a muted orange, flickering like tongues of flame that swirled around him in a barely contained heat. Niska’s own blackish-blue magic hung around him like a smokey fog. Niska closed his eyes and pushed his magic outwards, the smoke surging through the basement, his dark blue consciousness whirling gently around the spectators, forming little eddies in all the dust-ridden nooks and corners so nothing would escape his notice.
“Ready?” he asked, putting up his hands.
