The last fight is a frenzy of blows, shoves, soaked impacts and desperate maneuvers that leave you lungs burning and your body aching all over. The big Reman brawler opposite you is brawnier for sure; but he looks to have been softened up considerably by your teammates, and the Spudletter. Perhaps that headstart will compensate for his familiarity with the weapons of the game, making it something like a fair match. Helpful is the two thirds of a shield you still have, which your opposite number does not; and whenever his club bashes into the splintering edge of that deflector, your return attack can only be opposed with a forearm or caught on the body. One good blow slips through and you crack him on the noggin, and he teeters back and to his knees; but he springs up and returns to swing at you before you can put him away. It's about thirty seconds of back and forth, spread over an eternity of low-lethality violence, before you are able to drive a knee into his stomach, empty all the air from his lungs, and send him to the ground, clutching himself. You crank back your leg for the kick to the head that would be needed to, hopefully, put him out of conciousness; but an attendant beside you blows sharply on a wooden whistle and brings the game to a halt. For a gut-freezing second you fear you've done something wrong; but the explosion of joy among the bloodied and battered gallants a moment later, the hurricane of backslaps and howls of victory, tell you the opposite is true. You put your man on the ground, and he was not fit to recover swiftly enough to satisfy the judgement of the attendants. The Reman team can no longer field six players; and given than this player has been taken out of action in the fair course of play and not through a foul deed, they have no recourse to replenish their reserve. The game is over. You have won.

"Hahah! See, I told you - I told everyone - hey, you did it!" Daniele, whom you have had one conversation with earlier in your life before today, is lit up with delight for you that shines out of both his blackened eyes. "Amazing! Amazing; they'll be talking about this one for years, ha ha! Luccini will still whip us in the final, but we've never final'd before! Ahh!" He pauses to lean forward holding his ribs, and catch his breath. Just like that, it's over. The Reman team is sullen, but not openly bitter; they mill between the Verezzans shaking hands and offering short remarks of congratulation in decent sportsmanship. The brute - now recovered enough to stand with some help from a friend and wheezing reparative breathes into his narrowed lungs, makes sure to offer you his big mitt to shake. He can't offer commentary in his state, but he does give you that simple grin that seems, in this new context, to appreciate your moxie.

It's good that the Reman team is appreciative. The crowd is not. Their home team has lost the fight in the grand colosseum, and they boo raucously. The bones of mutton shanks go sailing into the arena, scattering on the sand. The displeasure of the onlookers is not riotous, though it is uniform; except for a handful of scattered Verezzan die-hards, including one dark haired girl whose cheers for you are lost in the ballyhooing drone of the losing fans. You can't hear her, but you see her bouncing up and down on her chair, waving her yellow scarf about. Around her is a halo of grumpy Remans who might be inclined to shout down or even accost such a display of spirit; but something about Bella - perhaps her youth, her radiant gentleness, or the unroughened fact of her femininity - shields her from the initiation of crowd violence which breaks out in scattered patches elsewhere in the stadium. As the locals start filing out and off to local drinking venues to complain, she bundles her pack and yours left at the seats, and begins navigating down to the arena's side to meet you.

Luigiano and Daniele invite you for an after-event drink, and to join them as they check on their bludgeoned comrades to tell them the good news - but the sun is slipping from the sky, now; and as a tourist in this place, you have other places to be - parts to buy for Cestié, and then a walk back to the farm where the flying machine rests.

"Well, you really bailed us out of a bad pinch, there," Daniele says as he shakes your hand and prepares to release you to your errands; your personal things restored to you, the now sweaty, bloody borrowed uniform yielded with the armaments; "Luccini's team are incredible; so the chance that we'll swat them is slim to none; but the pot for the runner up isn't bad either. We'll cut you in for, oh, let's say ten percent of the outcome either way, and have it sent to your clerk friend in Bella Collina. It's a two hundred duri pot for the runner up; a thousand for the winner, so it's a golden gift either way. And hey - if you ever feel like travelling the world and fighting professionally more seriously... You're technically inducted to the Gallants, now; so don't let another merc outfit poach you!"

* * * * *

Back at the farmhouse, you find Cestié kicked back on a comfortable stack of hay bales; smoking from a pipe under the stars with an empty bowl that once contained stew in his lap. He seems happy as a clam - certainly, now that you and Bella have made it back safe with the things he needs.

"Ah! Welcome back! Our hosts put some stew aside for you, and it'll still be warm. Now you've seen the big city - are you impressed?"

Spoiler: OOC:
Show
Two weeks from now, there is a 12% chance that the Lancers will will, and you'll have 100 durimailed to your name back in Bella Collina; otherwise, a more modest 20. Not bad, for fifteen minutes of frenzy!

And gain 150XP for your adventures in Remas!