“Away to me,” the Granny Wrangler shouts. The dogs begin to
circle the old women, slowly moving them on. There is an occasional
squawk of “Tea,” from somewhere in the group, but they slowly
make their way through the market.
“I fear to ask this,” Raven says, “But who buys old ladies?”
“Anybody who wants to enter the tournament,” is the answer.
“Tournament? What sort of a tournament?”
“The Battling Grannies Championship Medal is its proper tittle, at
least half the embodiments will enter a candidate.”
“Sorry, you've lost me. These grannies are being sold to fight in
some kind of gladiatorial style combat?”
“Exactly. Those are just your basic handbag swingers, but once
they've had a bit of training... Last year's winner, Mrs Brown, you
wouldn't believe what she could do with her knitting.”
