Ul'dah.
Surrounded by barren deserts and rocky badlands filled with monsters and other things more foul, it seems a most inhospitable place. Yet behind its great walls of reinforced stone lies the wealthiest center of commerce in all Eorzea, a place where any man or woman with enough wit and moxie can find their fortune. Merchants and adventurers flock here from all over the world to claim their piece of the action, and some among them find the opportunities they seek and make a name for themselves, leading lives of luxury that others can only dream of.
But most find that life within the walls is just as dangerous as the wilds without. Silver-tongued con-men lurk at every corner ready with the one great secret or special trick that they claim will get you rich quick, but in truth will leave you penniless or dead in a gutter with a knife in your back. Greedy merchants walk the streets as if they own them; and they do, for none who value their lives and livelihoods would dare cross a man who could buy the earth beneath your feet for the spare change he keeps in his pocket. While the wealthy enjoy lives of excess and debauchery, the poor beg for food or work in squalid alleys.
For all its dangers and depravity, however, Ul'dah is still a haven. It is a place that has sheltered dozens of generations from scouring sandstorms and marauding beastmen bent on pillage and slaughter. Its walls have never been breached, and its army of mercenaries is amongst the strongest in the entire world. The warriors of Ul'dah train every day to hone their skills, because like everything in the city, skill at arms can bring great wealth.
Ul'dah is the beating heart of Eorzean commerce, and the beating heart of Ul'dah is the Coliseum. Men and women from all walks of life gather here every day to fight for glory and wealth, or to gamble what wealth they own on who will die that day. Blood stains the sand so thick that not even the scorching sun and ceaseless wind could ever scour it clean. Yet always they come; warriors who will carve their names into the annals of history or die trying. Gladiators trained with sword and shield brawl with Pugilists who wield their entire bodies as weapons, and powerful Thaumaturges weave spells of devastation to the delighted roar of bloodthirsty crowds.
To some Ul'dah is the greatest opportunity they will ever find. To others, it is a refuge from the dangers of the wild world.
To Brock, Ul'dah is home.
He has lived in Ul'dah for all his life, born a merchant's son in a grand house in the wealthiest district. For many years he lived a life of comfort and joy, receiving the finest education money could buy. But it would not last. Fortune is a fickle thing, and it abandoned Brock's family the day his father died on the blade of a poor street thug for his purse. His mother tried to keep things together, but the sharks of the merchant world smelled blood in the water. The business Brock's father had worked his whole life to build was dismantled in days, and he and his mother were cast out of their home. For the rest of his formative years Brock lived in near poverty, his mother working hard every day to keep a roof over their head and food on the table, but they could afford ought else. Eventually, sickness claimed his mother, and Brock, barely a grown man, was alone. Not an uncommon story in the desert city-state, and like so many others with a like history, Brock now found himself fighting for his life in the Coliseum.
The sun beat down mercilessly; sweat streaming down his face and into his eyes, but Brock could not afford the distraction to wipe it away. He kept his gaze locked on his opponent, a dark-skinned Hyur dressed in a ragged loincloth and sandals. Despite his opponent's lack of armor, Brock knew not to take him lightly. This man's body rippled with corded muscle as tough as iron, and while his skin would offer no protection against Brock's blade he knew he would be hard-pressed to ever land a blow. The man before him was a trained Pugilist and could move with liquid grace and lightning swiftness. His punches would land like hammer blows, and worse still he was not unarmed; in each hand he gripped a thick hunk of bone – called hora – crafted to wrap around his knuckles to reinforce his blows.
Brock took a slow, steadying breath as he continued to watch his opponent. He gripped the hilt of his small bronze gladius tightly, knuckles white from lack of blood. His heels bobbed up and down as he balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to move at a moment's notice. But his eyes never blinked, never wavered from his opponent. He had to react the very moment his enemy made his move, or he would be finished.
The dark-skinned man tensed suddenly, his left foot shooting forward an inch before retracting; a feint. Brock's own body tensed reflexively, but he held back and did not shift his balance. Such a simple trick would not catch him.
The next time his enemy moved, it was real. In one motion, a single twitch of every muscle in the man's body sent the Pugilist hurtling through the air at Brock; right fist cocked back and left knee leading. A straightforward assault, but executed with blinding speed.
Brock was ready. He lunged forward and to the right, raising his small round shield to catch the driving knee and divert it to his left. As the man's body followed its own momentum he could not bring his readied fist to bear, and so Brock now had the initiative. As his foe descended past he spun behind him, sword driving for his back, but the dark man flew past into a roll, escaping his reach. Once again the two fighters stood several feet apart, eyes locked and weapons ready.
Now Brock charged with shield leading and sword tight at his side ready to stab. The Pugilist retreated apace, staying just ahead of Brock's rush but unable to set himself for an attack. He tried to slip around to Brock's left, hoping to use the visual obstruction of the shield to escape, but Brock didn't allow it, sidestepping to keep the fighter in front of him and swiping with his blade as he drove further forward, backing the man toward the wall of the Pit.
This battle had been going for some minutes now without either fighter making much headway; the Pugilist was too fast for Brock to catch with his short blade as he danced about, striking with feet and fists but never fully committing to a pitched fight at close quarters. If Brock was going to ever land a blow, he would have to pin him down. So now he continued to press, herding the unarmored man with threatening swipes until he finally had the bastard up against the wall. Time to move in for the kill.
As soon as he felt the shade of the wall behind him, the Pugilist realized the time for retreat was over. Crouching low, he set his balance and launched a powerful forward kick right into Brock's raised shield. Brock's forward momentum was instantly halted, the jarring blow actually knocking his arm back enough that his head made brief contact with the rim of his shield. The ensuing millisecond delay left him open to a second kick, this one to his leading right leg that dropped him to one knee.
On the Pugilist came, fists pumping mightily in rapid succession from all angles. Brock stubbornly kept his shield raised, blocking and diverting the heavy strikes as best he could. Under such pressure he couldn't regain his feet, and his left arm was quickly going numb. He had to change the situation, now.
Gritting his teeth in anticipation of what would come next, Brock lowered his shield, leaving his head open for a devastating punch. The Pugilist shouted in glee, thinking he'd overpowered his opponent at last. Just as his fist came into contact with Brock's head, he felt the edge of a metal shield crush his foot.
Brock's head rang like a gong and blinding white light flashed behind his eyes, but he held onto consciousness. He'd known what was coming and had dropped to the ground with the momentum of the punch, defeating much of its power, but it still hurt like hell. It took more than a moment to for his vision to clear, but he didn't need to see to follow through with his ploy.
The Pugilist's foot was broken badly, and he cried out in agony with all thoughts of attack momentarily forgotten in his utter surprise. His hands lowered, clutching his leg; his face was low as he bent at the waist, and Brock's shield met his chin with resounding force. His teeth cracked together and severed a small piece of his tongue as his head was thrown back, back, and then down to collide heavily with the dirt floor.
Ears still ringing and vision doubled, Brock took a moment to find his balance before scrambling on top of his fallen and surely concussed foe, placing his short blade against his throat.
"I claim victory!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, words slurred but still intelligible.
A great roar filled the air as every voice in the Coliseum joined in exultation. Laughter and curses abound as gil changed hands and bets were settled. A deep bass voice called out Brock's name as the victor.
Brock slowly got to his feet, his foe still flat on his back but groaning and starting to move once again.
Still alive, he thought. Good.
Four men clad in the regalia of soldiers of Ul'dah came onto the sands, two of them dragging the semi-conscious Pugilist away and the other two standing at attention at Brock's sides, his victor's honor guard ready to escort him from the Pit. To the continued cheers of the crowd, Brock allowed himself to be led away, offering a wave to his temporary fans that'd made money from his exploits.
A short time later as he walked out of the Coliseum, a hefty bag of gil bouncing gaily in his hand, a small smile creased his face. After years of training and fighting for his life in the Pit, he finally had enough money to leave it all behind. His debt would be paid off in full, and what remained would carry him through his first few days in his new life.
With a spring in his step, Brock took to the streets, heading for the Quicksand.