Cris trudged along with her injured father behind her. She knew he was suffering, but couldn't quite turns around to see him. She could hear him though, breathing deeply through the pain. She could also hear others, the clank of chains suggesting they too were prisoners, and then there was the fight. She could hear but not see what was going on in the ring, and she did not particularly want to. She'd been in a few scraps herself, and had even sparred with a blade with Theodore who had been a sellsword in his youth, before marrying and settling down. He still kept a long short and dagger on the mantelpiece, along with a broken dwarven shield. Seeing her balance and reflexes he had wanted to see how well she could handle a blade, so when her father was in one of her moods Cris had taken him up on the offer.<br/><br/>She had performed well, what she lacked in training she made up for with speed and precision. He had even shown her the weak points on a body, and how to trip and disarm. Cris understood the methods of how to do the latter, but in practice always let her defences down, getting tapped on the head by a bemused Theodore. Once during training she had cut him, deep on the arm and had felt terrible even though he didn't seem to mind. Three times he had cut her, but after the shock of the first it hadn't been that bad. Mercenaries learned a lot of things, including how to stitch a wound.<br/><br/>But despite her proficiency, she didn't like to fight, nor did she necessarily like to watch others fight. Watching Dusa and Rothin wrestle in the mud had been fun, but bare knuckle fist fight tended to make her squeamish with the prolonged violence, and fight sounded extreme, even compared to a tavern brawl. She heard the sound again, impact against flesh, but this was closer. The guards were hurting her father again, why didn't they stop? Why did he keep trying to talk to them. She uttered a shuddering cry, and again fought back the instinct to make another useless apology.