Music in the Meat Pit: Christoph vs. Edmund Talbott

[Christoph]

Shunk! Shunk! Shunk!

The cold air in the dimly lit slaughterhouse hung thick with the odor of blood and burnt flesh. The chamber was approximately one hundred feet long and fifty feet wide. Giant slaps of meat dangled from the ceiling in rows, dripping blood on stone floor. The center of the massive room was frigid enough to freeze one’s breath, but dozens of massive meat furnaces blazed along the long sidewalls. Their huge doors wide open, they billowed enough heat to blister skin.

Shunk! Shunk! Shunk!

The only sounds were the hellish crackle of flame from the furnaces and wet chopping sounds coming from the furthest side. In the far center of the slaughterhouse, Christopher Knighton sat and worked behind a large wooden table covered in huge chunks of bloody meat. With a slimy cleaver in hand, the chef Hierarch worked tirelessly, chopping and sectioning the beef with mechanical precision.

The familiarity of the process soothed him and allowed him to ignore how far out of his bearings he was. The chef could forget that he was a Warrior of the Pagoda, far from his home and friends. He could forget about the challenger that he was waiting for. For that moment, as Chris sat on his workbench dressed in a white coat and bloodstained apron, he was home again, doing a job that he knew and enjoyed.

Shunk! Shunk! Shunk!

The Warrior smiled. The Monks had done fine job on his arena. It wasn’t home, but it was close enough. It reminded him of the butcher shop that he used to do side jobs for in his hometown. He could accept and even enjoy his stay at the Pagoda, as unexpected as it was.

Chris had stepped through the hallowed doors of the Dajas Pagoda once before. It had been a quick stop in Scara Brae on a cargo ship from Corone to Salvar. He’d visited the great warrior temple out of boredom, and wound up fighting none other than the legendary Dan Kross. With a combination of cunning and luck, he even won. It was one of his proudest moments; he was sad to leave the island. As it turned out, the monks hadn’t forgotten him. Apparently, his victory against Dan Kross had made quite an impression. When he finally returned to Dajas Pagoda, he was recognized immediately and offered a job

How could he refuse?

Just then, the wrought-iron doors on the other side creaked loudly. His challenger had arrived. Chris sighed.

“I suppose I need to do my new job, now.”

[Edmund Talbott]

"Macabre much?" The bard, dressed plainly in leather and brigandine, stepped through the doors into the misty cold. The hanging racks of flesh did little to impress him, barring the more than acceptable cover one could make of them. From what he knew, this madman enjoyed throwing fire, and it would be interesting to see which would last longer, the racked meats, or the man's fire. The longsword and buckler he carried were out and ready. While the meat would provide him more than adequate cover from enemy attack, the same could be said of his opponent. Already a thin rime of frost had coated their steel surfaces, dulling the gleam of burnished metal, and imparting an almost devilish look to them.

"You'd think he'd be a bit more stable than this, being a warrior like this, but I don't recall sanity listed anywhere on the job requirements, so maybe not..." He trailed off, the sound falling dead in the dense cold air as he muttered quietly to himself, or more specifically the voice within his head. "OI! I've come to see if the tales of this blasted pagoda are true. Win, and you might get your name in a song somewhere, don't, and you might still get it there, albiet with less flattery. That said, let's get this over with quickly, I have other things to do with my time and talents, and this is at best a pitstop." He began humming as he walked, almost enjoying the brisk atmosphere, despite the rather vile surroundings. Staining his only brigandine with any more blood than could be helped was to be avoided, and this entire room seemed best suited to the transfer of just such vital liquids. At least it would have adequate drainage if he spitted the butcher.

The butcher is a sadistic creature, he delights in the pain and torture of others... And you don't? I wouldn't call him so much sadistic as unhinged myself... I only like to burn things, I enjoy the fire, not the things that are on fire. Sadistic, unhinged, what matter? Your bones will still be broken and your eyes plucked out... The voice always trailed off, never truly finishing an entire thought, but that wasn't surprising. Edmund often failed in the same aspect, and when two similar minds meetone rarely surprises the other in any great way.

[Christoph]

“Well, then, don’t be shy and come on back!” Chris called in response to his challenger. “Since you’ve already established that you’re not here to select browse through my selection of meat.” Not bothering to stand, the Hierarch glanced up at his approaching foe, raising his eyebrow and fidgeting with the handle of his bloody cleaver.

The best word that the chef could use to describe his opponent was “non-descript.” Aside was his large, stout stature, there was little unusual about this man’s appearance. His hair was short and brown and his face and clothing practically epitomized mundane. If anything could have set the newcomer apart from every other random peasant on the street, it would have been the way he spoke. There was something subtly flamboyant and long-winded about him, as though he could break out into a flashy monologue at any moment.

That aside, the real question centered on whether or not the challenger was taking his trip to the Pagoda seriously. While Christopher’s first visit there could have been considered a ‘pit stop’, it wasn’t his choice to make it so brief and he never would have referred to it as such. Was this large, loud man the exception or were all of the challengers impatient glory hounds out to get a little fame? He shrugged. It didn’t matter; this was his job and he’d need to earn his keep, even if it meant fighting challengers who cared even less than he did.

“Well, I suppose that I should welcome you to my little corner of this grand temple,” said the Warrior, yawning and stretching his back. He forced himself to stand, stabbing his cleaver into the slab of meat, wiping his bloody hands off on his apron, and looking rather bored. After all the excitement of being hired into such a seemingly prestigious fellowship, this first match was already a bit of a letdown. “My name is Christopher Knighton, and I will be your waiter for tonight.”

[Edmund Talbott]

"I'll take filet mignon, medium well done, with a side of kidneys. Yours ought to suffice." It was rather contrived, but it's hard to have any clever comebacks for a cook, of all things. They've all been done before, all of them. So, he did what every good bard does. He improvised. Normally he would have simply walked up, and engaged the man as a duelist might, but this was not normally, he had no clever word play to throw off his opponent and let him get close enough to put hs sword through the opponents vitals, so he did something that might have, in any other case, been mildly insane. He started singing. It would, at the very least be a bit of a surprise. The bard was moving, and fast, his speed, strength and sheer ironwilled tenacity boosted by the power in his song. It was a frightening sight, two hundred thirty pounds of person moving as fluidly as a dancer, and as fast as a professional sprinter. He would cover the distance in a very short amount of time, mere seconds at best, and be face to face with the fire slinging chef that was his opponent. He didn't see any real weapons in his hands or on his person, though there were rumors of a sword somewhere. The chef knife would be less than useless if he tried to do anything other than get it between the plates of his armor, and by the time he managed a precise enough strike for that, Edmund would have had ample opportunity to plant his sword in the meat choppers body a dozen times over.

"Proud and so glorious, standing before of us our swords will shine bright in the sky, when united we come to the land of the sun, with the heart of a dragon we ride!" He moved like a human blur, ready to drop, jump, or dive to the side to avoid a fireball, which he expected to come at any moment. The sheer fact that he was singing might have bought him a fraction of a second in startlement, but it wouldn't buy him more, and he had no real weapons to throw, unless one counted his buckler, which would admittedly make someones life unpleasant if it hit. Assuming he could throw a three pound steel disc any distance with meaningful force. Might be something to look into anyway. He should certainly be strong enough to do it...

Less thinking more not getting caught on fire. Yathink? Really? Well, if you do get caught on fire, I'll be pretty pissed, I like watching you burn things, not vice versa. Right, whatever, can I just win this fight and have done with it? If you must...

The voice in his head once again trailed off. It was always breaking in at inopportune moments, one day it was going to get him in trouble, or save his ass, something like that anyway.

[Christoph]

Is this guy serious?

It was a fair question to ask when seeing his opponent charge full speed at him whilst singing. The sight of the man’s massive frame lumbering for the chef didn’t frighten him so much as leave him repulsed. The act seemed to deny the laws of physics in more ways than he’d thought possible. On the whole, though, the move reeked of amateurism.

Not a frontal charge… whatever well I do? The initial answer was simple; he would roll his eyes. The next answer was almost as simple. The prospect of simply flicking his hand and burning the challenger to cinders tempted him greatly. That would have been a bit underhanded, though. He prided himself on customer satisfaction, and torching his opponent in the first five seconds wasn’t likely to provide the kind of fight most came to the Pagoda to find.

It became clear in the short moment as Christopher’s opponent sprinted for him that he’d need to be a little more creative. As such, he cast his simple strength charm with a fluid hand motion that he worked into the act of grabbing for his cleaver and a muttered word that would remain inaudible over the challenger’s abyssal singing. Energy electrified his muscles instantly as his physical might doubled.

Finally, he sprung with his knee and powered his other leg into his meat-covered worktable. The thick wood was lighter than it appeared. One swift kick sent it and the chopped meat sailing several feet through air, directly at the emerging challenger. Chris grinned in spite the painful welt that the kick left behind. It was worth it. He swiftly crouched into a low combat stance, with his knees bent and feet apart, and prepared to make his next move.

[Edmund Talbott]

TABLE! He saw it coming, and he did the only thing he could do, he dropped his shoulder, added a last push of speed, and accepted the hit. It would raise a massive bruise later, but for now he barely felt it through the music. The power singing, literally, through his body dulled the pain to a managable level, and his sword came back up to meet...a chef knife? He seriously thinks a knife is any match for a sword? No matter how good your knife is, it has one fatal flaw that can be exploited to no end. Two really. It had no leverage, he could bind it up or slap it away with ease, and it had no reach. He had several advantages in this contest, size, reach, maybe strength, he was a bigger baseline for his own magic to work on at least.

The sword came in at low guard. Most teachers taught it as a position of weakness or defense, but a skilled enough swordsman could attack very effectively from the same position and make it stick, especially against an unprepared opponent. The sword came up, fast as ever, just as he reached the edge of his reach. The tip would rip across the chest of his opponent if he didn't step out of the way, and if he did move, there was the second threat from his off hand. The entire strategy at this point in the game had changed. He had about 7 minutes to wear his opponent out or beat him soundly before he lost his biggest advantage, so keeping him on the defensive and at the edge of his reach was perfect, it let him dictate ther terms of engagement as long as he could keep the pressure up, which was his intention.

[Christoph]

Sorry for the wait -- this has been my warning for the match.

Christopher grinned as the table struck his foe with a very satisfying whump! The table didn’t stop the charging singer, but it did slow him and throw him off long enough for Chris to be ready to meet the assault. The chef could read his opponent’s movements as though they were spelled out on the man’s chest. The challenger had clearly gone through some training, but he was still an amateur. Chris, on the other hand, could out-fence three-quarters of the nobles in Radisanth and look good in a chef coat at the same time.

The attack came swiftly, but the chef was even faster. He sidestepped and pivoted to the left as the strike came. With expert hands, he arced his steel cleaver down, using its shape to hook the incoming sword. Steel scraped against steel as Chris drove forward on dexterous feet.

Once again, the temptation to reduce his challenger to ashes appeared, but he pushed it aside. It was too soon. Instead, he opted for a far weaker attack that sacrificed injury for added insult. The chef powered forward in a low lunge step after having swept the singer’s sword to the right. When he extended his left arm to strike, it wasn’t a fist at the end, but two extended fingers – and they were aglow with intense blue fire.

He fired off the strike, quite literally poking his opponent in the forehead with flaming fingers. The force alone in the attack was substantial given his magically enhanced strength and the fire was hot enough to melt through most anything. In a final motion, the Warrior arced his fingers upward in an attempt to drag across the challenger’s hair. Chris could only hope that the man would stop singing long enough to cry out in pain – the latter being far more audibly pleasing in the chef’s opinion.

[Edmund Talbott]

Unfortunately for the chef, the singing didn't even hitch, the ringing notes pealed out as steadily as ever, the sheer concentration required for the use of his magic, combined with the power of the spell dulled the worst of the pain, though the scars the fire would leave could be problematic. But, on the other hand this was exactly what he had asked for. It left him well inside the arc of his enemies hands, leaving the chance of a fireball that much lower, and it put his enemy well in reach of his off hand, and the second attack he most likely hadn't seen coming. The chef was a dueslist. His training was in the use of the rapier and main gauche. Edmund was a fighter, and when the chef got that close, he did what fighters down through the ages have done, and punched out with his shield, directly into his opponents face. His sword had been on a path away from his body, and left well out to the side by his first strike, but now it was coming back around, and his oppoenent had two threats to worry about, the three feet of steel in his one hand, able to shamsh through the guard of his knife at this short range, and the three pounds of steel in his left, able to smash bones.

If he had had musical acompaniment, he would have been entering an instrumental portion of the song, and he took the opportunity to taunt his opponent, relieved of the need to sing the entire length of the song. "Is that the best you've got? A couple firey fingers, a knife, and a table? I could get that from a street hooker if I paid him enough. And he'd be more entertainment than you've been to boot!"

[Christoph]

The results of the singer’s poorly thought-out counterattack were awkward. Perhaps the challenger had been expecting an inept brawler, given the skills in both swordplay and pyromancy that Chris had already displayed. The chef’s opponent had made a major miscalculation if that were true. Years serving both as a bartender and a bouncer back home had given the Warrior admirable experience in gritty unarmed combat.

Perhaps that poor assumption had lead to the challenger’s even poorer timing. He’d chosen to strike out with his shield before Chris had withdrawn from his burning poke, most likely assuming that the chef would be off balance. The flaw, however, was the fact that the Hierarch’s arm was still between his body and the shield. For this reason, Christopher was able to protect his face from the shield fairly easily, though it cost him a very painful welt on his forearm. The only reason it succeeded as much as it did was because the chef hadn’t expected the singer to be all but unaffected by an injury that would have caused an utterly excruciating amount of pain in even the hardiest of foes.

The sword attack was slightly less foolish, since it could have worked against far less skilled fighters. Still, the challenger should have known better than to hope for results from swinging a sword at such a close range. Chris, using his experience from countless bouts fighting armed opponents with nothing but his hands, simply grabbed at his opponent’s sword wrist and pushed up with his magically enhanced strength.

At that moment, two emotions overtook the Warrior: boredom and annoyance. The challenger was nothing more than a loud amateur – not worthy of Chris’s time. He’d given him the chance to prove his worth, and now regretted bothering with it. He rolled his eyes and simultaneously cast the spell that would protect him from extreme heat and fire, and the spell released enough blue, arcane fire to burn three grown men to ash. The fool wasn’t even worth talking down to.

[Christoph]

“Please tell me that you are not going to make a habit of burning every challenger alive within four minutes their arrival.” A tall, wiry monk with dark skin and green robes stood just outside the healing chamber. In actuality, it had a fancier name than that, but Chris could never be bothered to remember how to pronounce it. “While it is your duty to defend the honor of the Pagoda, it is also your responsibility to teach and pass knowledge on to our visitors.”

The Warrior rolled his eyes. It was less than half and hour after he’d incinerated his singing opponent in his slaughterhouse. The sound of his flesh burning hadn’t been nearly as satisfying as he’d hoped, because the bard just kept on singing through to his last breath. As it turned out, the Monks tended to frown upon their Hierarchs so swiftly decimating their challengers without any regard to their duties as teacher.

“Yes, yes, I’ll try to be more careful next time, sir,” he replied, calling him ‘sir’ simply because he couldn’t recall the Monk’s name, not because he respected him significantly. “It wasn’t my original intention, but this challenger was very annoying.

“You will have to learn to not be annoyed,” said the monk. “Improve yourself and do better next time.”

“I’ll get right on that,” laughed Chris sardonically. “But really, you could help by sending me challengers who aren’t so damned flammable.”

“As it turns out, most mortals are flammable…”

The chef grinned. “Well, that’s hardly my fault, now is it? Blame the gods.” He patted the Monk on the shoulder and started down the hall back to his arena, not giving the battle or his conversation with the Monk a second thought. It was time to go back to work.