(7) Dark Phoenix v (18) Circus

[Nightsangel]

Slowly she entered the building, for a few moments she could hear nothing but quiet stillness. The silence calmed her a bit, she had feared for a moment when the vendor had tried to woo her into buying one of his silly gaudy weapons that the man had another intentions on his mind. It seemed that while he was trying to urge her to buy a weapon, he was also peeking at her lavishly clad body. This had scared her for a moment, but her mind had been so set on getting to her match, that she had simply jerked herself away from the man's hard grip. Leaning briefly against the wall she thought to herself He probably just desperately wanted my gold coins....not my body... Peeking down at her soft halter top and snug leather pants, she sighed as she stretched and finished up her thoughts I know I look good...but this is a tournament...not some dark corner in the black market of Radasanth...the merchant's here just want gold...not a woman....

With her mind cleared about her worries on the vendor, she pushed herself off the cold wall, padding softly as her steps echoed down the concrete floor. She soon reached a plain wooden door. Pushing it open, quite a sight met her eyes.

Before the vixen stood a large cage, it was cold look, stoic with clear metal chains snaking along the metallic walls. She knew that Seth probably had something to do with this. Shaking her head as her tongue ran lightly over her lips she thought to herself Just great....a cage...and then you have demon...put a demon unhindered into a cage and then you have a blood bath.... Her eyes slowly left the snake like chains to fall on the freed form of her partner. It seemed that the battle had started with out her, which left her to look like even more of a fool. Gritting her teeth, her boots softly tread across the cold metal of the floor.

Reaching the cage door, she hoisted herself up onto the small platform. Still not seeing her opponents she sighed as she reached for the door. However, the last dying notes of music could be heard. Shaking her head she pushed the door open, it seemed that some sort of dance had taken place because just as Sivienna creaked the door open, the last dancer that someone had called was disappearing in a cloud of smoke.

Rubbing her eyes Sivienna muttered softly "Who ordered the band?" Her lilac orbs then looked around the cage, it seemed that Seth was already locked in combat with what appeared to be a dark elf. Shaking her head, Sivienna walked a few paces forward before she loudly stated over the clang of metal upon metal. "Gee Seth! Nice of you to wait for me! What did you want to do? Fight this battle on your own?" Moving forward her eyes grew hotter as she shouted "Then were you just going to come back to the hotel and say that I wasn't needed?!" Itching to do what she had done when she had seen him last in Corone, her hand flexed briefly. In a controlled voice she said softly "If we weren't locked in a cage like animals, I'd so hit you Seth! We agreed to be partners and that means fighting together! Next time you leave me behind...I..." Grumbling to herself, Sivienna merely hissed lightly as she said softly "Never mind Seth...just next time don't leave me behind...it really does look foolish when this is a two on two fight..."

She then looked around the cage, her boots softly moving over the coldness. She could smell another being here...an animal of some sort. Soon her eyes had fallen on the elephant...blinking in shock, her mouth fell open as she murmurs loudly "Oi and now you left me to fight and elephant Seth...gee..."Dryly she laughs as she murmurs "Thanks...."

[chumley]

Chumley watched his partner's assault with some interest, noting his form with an approving eye. His attack was as well coordinated as Sherman's attack on Savannah; the priest lacked only a blue uniform and cap to be the spitting image of a Union assault. The elephant pulled a handkerchief out of his waistcoat and dabbed at a tearful eye, for the thought of Sherman inexorably lead to the thought of Lincoln. It gave Chumley great pain to denegrate the Emancipator's political party in song, but he could no longer consider himself a Republican after the nomination of those bungling political bugaboos, Grant and Colfax. As nefarious as they were pusillanimous, as ugly within as without, they could not stand against the moral scrutiny of the legacy of a man of Lincoln's stature, and that they should march in his footsteps was an insult to the man's memory.

"Oh!" Chumley cried, tucking away his handkerchief and looking down at his feet. "My hat! Saint Andrew's cross, I nearly forgot!" Stooping down to where he had left the accoutrement in the dust, Chumley brushed it off, cleaning the reminder of his hero's own stovepipe. "I shall one day have to compose a song on how much this hat means to me," Chumley said, affixing it to his head as he straightened back up. "Perhaps in Italian... GREAT POTEMKIN'S VILLAGE!" Chumley roared, reeling as a dagger slashed his voluminous ear, cutting a gash across it. The ivory-tusked dancing wonder, feeling a wave of nausea wash over him, stumbled about, flailing his arms helplessly. Confused and frightened, as any honorable man would be upon being attacked in such an underhanded, base, treacherous, cowardly way, he ran about in circles, feeling his warm ichor run down his leathery hide. Not since Burr slew Hamilton had such a dastardly deed been committed against an honorable servant of the Republic. Only in the innermost level of Hell would such infamy be tolerated against the most naive, charming and trusting elephant of the Transmississippi.

After a few moments, the pain in his ear subsiding, if not that in his heart, Chumley stopped, gaining control of himself, and began plucking handkerchiefs from his clothing like one of the most skilled prestidigitators of the Asiatic courts, applying them to his wound as a makeshift bandage. "By G-d in Heaven," Chumley roared, his voice a horrible reverberation equal in horrible volume to the final blasts of the seven Apocalyptical trumpets of St. John's revelation, "D--m the poltroon who dared deliver this wound! I hope to see his face before the Devil himself pours hot tar upon it, so I can witness across his visage the horror of one whose execrable sins have condemned him to the sulfurous pit!" Searching in the dust with his eyes aflame, Chumley saw, splayed in the dirt, a blood-soaked dagger. He lunged for it, grabbing the infamous tool and raising it in the air. By the patina of dyspeptic self-pity and an almost Kierkegaardian ruefulness coating the blade, it was obvious to whom it belonged.

"I thought only Irishmen capable of such evil," Chumley roared, turning to the battling warriors behind him. "But you, Dahlios, have surpassed even them. You, sir, are not a man. Your hair may be a hoary white, but you have the soul, disposition and honor of an adolescent girl, spurned by the schoolmaster with whom she has become infatuated! I would spit on your simpering face, sir, but it is not worth even that disparagement. I will take this token of your dishonor, and will show it to all whom I encounter in the future, so that they may point to it and my scar, and say: 'He is unworthy of the title "villain!"'" Chumley tucked the dagger into his waistcoat and turned, preparing to leave the arena in disgust.

Much to his surprise, he found himself face-to-face with a most curious creature. Although as slight as one of Bacchus' willowy nymphs, her skin and eyes could only have come from one of Hades' minions. Chumley knew immediately why she had made an appearance here, sneaking into the arena like Hamlet edging behind an arras, to strike at the innocent Polonius.

"Well, have at you!" Chumley bellowed, waving his fist at her angrily, his redstained handkerchiefs dripping blood on the ground. "Are you a friend of this d---ed creature, Dahlios? If so, I swear upon the word of my Savior, the Christ, that I will see you defeated this day on an honorable plain of battle!"

[Ranger]

As the broad head of the spade was deftly deflected by the thief Ranger spun on his soft-leather boots. The heels clicked against the soft stage that had been given to them for the first round, and even before the hollow click could be drowned by the uproar of the routine the drow was moving. To his side his opponent had shifted. Like a ghost the elven prophet followed. He was light on his feet and with step the illusion of the band was shifting. Ranger was all but impressed with the magic that his elephant partner could perform, thoroughly entertained and found it to be more then practical.

Do all humans have such inane and often cliché responses during fights? Or am I just blessed by the Thayne to find each one that feels the intense desire to flood the battle with quips of a juvenile nature? The drow had barely heard Seth’s comment about the dance with the fight, but it had been enough. He had heard all the little remarks and unnecessary side-conversation that those of human background felt so compassionate about throwing into or after every fight.

Quickly his attention was diverted though, as his deep silver eyes followed the flowing white mane of his opponent. As his finger hooked through a small loop at his side Ranger held stopped on bated breath. Dexterity did not seem to be the strong suit of his companion, who though lithe at the dance was easily three hundred pounds. Its thick gray skin and rather large bone structure probably did not suit it for the routine it so aspired to perform, but Ranger could only assume that it definitely did not have the grace necessary. With the blade released with amazing perfection, the very art and accuracy of an expert behind it, the drow had little time to think.

He could toss a bolt of light at it, knock it from the air, but it would take a split second to create it and another to throw it well aimed. Throwing weapons was not a particularly strong area for the prophet, definitely not something that he practiced. By the time a small stream of light, as rigid and long as a small spear, could be formed the kunai had sliced through the elephant’s ear. Ranger felt an instant remorse for his lack of action, and silently cursed himself as Chumley’s outburst flooded the arena.

Behind the elephant a woman slipped in a silent as an assassin. Her milk-white visage was accented with a pair of crimson lips, long purple hair, thin violet nails, and a set of clothing that would make a Radasanthian whore blush. Her eyes held all that the elven prophet needed to know. She was a vampiress. A slight bulge at the edges of her deep, claret lips gave Ranger another clue as to her vampiress lifestyle. The door was silently shut behind her and within an instant her voice carried too through the cage.

It looks as if that the smug brigand has more then two opponents to worry about. With an ally and teammate bordering on true hatred, why would he bother partaking in a tournament? It seems he has plenty on his hands as it is, and much more angst from her then either of us ever held towards each other.

Within a split second, Chumley having turned to meet his half of the fight, Ranger was moving again. The five foot bar of light slumped and grew an extra foot at the cost of width. Instead of throwing it as the drow had originally intended he took hold of its end and cracked it towards the thoroughly insulted Seth. The man may have still be looking at the elephant, may have turned back towards Ranger. Whatever the case it was drown with light as the whip crossed before the drow’s face for half a second. The end of the six foot cord of light was a tip shaped much like a three inch dagger but as strong as dehlar and more then willing to sink into the thief.


((Forgive me if the description and entrance of Sivienna was incorrect. I’m not sure what you were wearing, so I just guessed at the body-suit that is in your profile.))

[Dissinger]

Several things floating into his head at once as things began to unfold. Not only did he wound the elephant, but apparently Sivienna had entered the fray at last. Not wanting to separate his gaze from Ranger, he found all too quickly that she was irate about his treatment. Apparently, the offer of more sleep was to be graciously declined, and followed up with accusations as to her importance. Inwardly groaning he let the thoughts of Ranger drift from his mind as he spat at his partner, "I have no time to explain myself to you, just keep the elephant busy, can you do that without complaint?"

It appeared that wasn't the case as her words drifted towards him, accusing him of overloading the delicate vampiress. Growling he closed his eyes and spat, "Would you just shut up and fight? We can talk about that later!"

The word “Later” was punctuated by the sounds of cloth tearing as the leather vest across his chest split under the whip. He quickly stepped back as he felt it begin to dig deeply into his flesh before coming out, missing his vital organs by a mere paper's width. Looking at Ranger his eyes darkened as he spat, "I don't have time for these games, life is passing you by!"

Energy crackled along his right hand as he snarled before it began to coalesce into a ball that brimmed with energy. The voices of his damnation within him echoed the chorus in his head; he was going to paint the walls of this cage red with Nailo's blood. As the energy formed a ball he threw it forward adding his own momentum to that of the ball, going only slightly faster than the speed of an arrow at its target, the midsection of the Drow prophet.

Energy released he also knew that the whip had recoil, and to beat him, he'd have to get within effective range. As so, bringing Spite and Malice to bear he rushed towards the target letting his anger further his cause of sowing destruction and mayhem. Slowly the life began to drain from his eyes as he let his control loosen to the demons within his heart. Today wasn't a test of skill; it wasn't an attempt at fame. He knew he had skill, he knew he was known.

No, today was the continuing of the path of damnation.

(Spell used is slow)

[Nightsangel]

Sivienna's eyes closed softly as she listened to the elephant's long-winded rant. His voice while melodious was grating to her sensitive ears. While normally the night vixen would not have minded hearing some one talk endlessly about a subject that was important to them. This time she could make out that the elephant was shouting out words of anger. From the scent that lingered like seductive chocolate in the air, she could only surmise that the elephant had been injured. Blinking her lilac orbs slowly drifted away from that of her partner to study the gray skinned elephant. She first saw the imminent signs of crimson red blood, the cut look deep enough to be made by a dagger, but no, slowly her lilac orbs drifted back over to her partner and she could see that all daggers were still with Seth. Smiling slightly, her eyes went back to the elephant. She could only conclude that during a brief lapse in time of his fight with the Drow, Seth had hurled one of his kunai at the heavy elephant and counting on the elephant's slow reaction speed, the kunai had injured the raging mad animal.

Slowly upon hearing his questions directed at her, she raised a delicate and graceful hand. Holding up two fingers, one slim finger slowly moved down as she said softly "First off...if I was a friend of Seth Dahlios...I would not be screaming and shouting at him about leaving me behind! No we are not friends merely partners...who..." her gaze slowly drifted to Seth and she winced inwardly upon seeing the rip that had happened in his vest. Growling softly she thought He deserved that....he so deserved that for leaving me behind! Sighing as she realized her thoughts were wandering she ignored the cold feeling in her chest as she saw Seth's demons rise to the surface. Turning her attention back to Chumley, her second finger slowly joined the other as she murmurs softly "and two I wouldn't want to attack my own partner if he and I were on pleasant terms."

Grinning wryly fully showing her fangs she murmurs coyly "So unless you wish to attack me and innocent damsel I'd suggest just running off." Slowly her boots clad across the soft coldness as she murmurs gently "However, if you wish to fight I’m more then happy to oblige...after all I do have aggression to get out due to the bastard I call my partner. So the choice is yours! Fight me or leave!" Stepping aside she murmurs softly "I’ll wait to let you make your choice before I draw my blades...."

[chumley]

"Clever ruse, you dark siren!" Chumley replied, rolling up his sleeves, handkerchiefs falling out with each tug, collecting around his feet. "But I'm afraid your guile has met its match, madam. I know not what dire illness gives you your sickly appearance, but I fervently hope it does not prevent you from making amends for your partner's dastardliness." Chumley placed his legs apart, adopting the closest approximation of a boxer's stance. It had been quite some time since Chumley had gone ten rounds in the ring, but he thought he could remember his way around the ropes. Last he boxed, his opponent had been an Abyssinian pirate, and the fight had begun as part of an altercation over a donkey, killed due to a misplaced bottle of sarsaparilla. The disagreement had developed, as disagreements with pirates often do, into a lively debate on the legitimacy of criminality on the high seas and the cause of the high incidence of sodomy among sailors. Sadly, the concussion blurred the rest of Chumley's recollection, and all he remembered beyond that was a hairy hunchback swinging from a chandelier and screaming "MAKE HIS BUTTOCKS BLEED!"

He shifted his shoulders from side to side in the mold of the long-lost Olympic athletes of the Hellenic era, his dukes raised like the rough-and-tumble ones of the American boxing ring. It was hard to know which figure would have struck a more graceful pose, so many aeons having separated them, but the raw emotion that rose in one's throat at seeing Chumley's tense figure was by itself a thing of beauty: No anachronistic comparisons were required.

The pachyderm knew he could not allow the anger rising within him to take control of his actions, but it was nigh on impossible. To be torn from his bountiful homeland and thrown into this topsy-turvy, higgledy-piggledy, hurly-burly world of Irishmen and savages was bad enough. To be insulted by them and injured by their machinations was to rub salt in the wound! All he wanted to do was find a way back to the land of the Stars and Stripes, the wide-open skies and the rolling prairie, the proud mesas and the canyons gaping with promise. And now, due to some absurd mix-up with the priest (probably a papist), Seth "Aunt Nancy" Dahlios and his minion, this apparent lady of the night, Chumley was no closer to getting the dickens out of here than a canary was to landing on the Great Seal of the United States. Looking about him, Chumley realized that he was indeed more like a canary than an elephant, for in a bizarre metaphorical twist, he was encased in a cage of chains!

"And it would please you dandies if I asked for a cracker, wouldn't it?" he roared at the venomous looking wench. "Enough! Your partner-in-crime will have to answer to his own sins soon enough. Now, you have to answer to me!" Chumley raised his fists higher, weaving them a bit drunkenly. "Toe the line! Isn't that what you Irish do best? Toe the line and box me, you fiend!"

[Ranger]

The disappearance of the musical instruments and dancers had slowly progressed until only the four fighters were left. Overhead a dim light filtered in through the skylight window at the top of the building. It was somehow depressing. When they had initially entered the caged arena the light had been the same gloomy, somber tone. But the magic of Chumley had brought an abundance of light, as had the whip made of magic. With both forms of magic gone and the looming shadows closing over the combatants, the drow was once again basked in a gray gloom.

Still little more then a child.

Despite the hoary flair of hair and stone-gray eyes that Seth had taken, he had never really changed deep inside. His arguments, his tone, his very diction reminded the elderly drow of an impetuous, blubbering child. Ranger was aggravated that the boy had not changed, but more so that he had once sunk so low as to be on the same level as the child, had once acted no better then Seth.

“Games?” Ranger responded. But the final part of his sentence had been a spell. The crackle of magic was pulsing through the arena as the whip in the drow’s hand slashed out again. Blood had slid across the surface of the light as if it was cold steel. The bladed end once again arched out, this time for the thieves shoulder. During the launch Seth’s hands had formed a ball of a grayish magic. The orb was delicate in its appearance but held secrets that Ranger knew would be far more then delicate.

As the gray globe was projected from his foe the whip collided with it. Instead of it dissipating, or an amazing display of clashing magics, the gold blade of light passed through like it was no more then air. Awe and shock caused the drow’s mouth to drop, his eyes widened and at their center a flash of light glint off their platinum coloration. Instinct brought Ranger’s free hand up and his face turned, wincing.

It did not harm him however.

The glowing sphere struck Rangers chest. A gust of wind and a sensation of ice struck him instantly. It was like a chunk of Salvar had been thrown at him. The gray glow washed over him and around him, surrounding him as he slowly moved back to look at Seth. The arm holding the whip had already been extended, the end would have struck true if the thief did not move or expect the attack. But, much to the drow’s surprise and anger, his arm fell very slowly.

Through his arms, his very body itself, he could feel his veins as if they were filled with a cold, sharp pain. His muscles tensed. His eyes bulged. His mouth returned to its closed position, but it took a great deal longer then it should have. “By the Thayne,” Ranger said, though because his lips and tongue only moved half as fast as his voice it would have appeared rather humorous. “What have you done to me?”

Ranger feared that the spell, something completely new from Seth as far as the drow was concerned, would last forever. If it lasted too long he may as well lie down his arms and concede, for nothing more would come from him.

Dear Thayne let this abate!

[Dissinger]

Seth was known for being brash and for pushing himself where the wiser course was often inaction. While others would be pleased to rest and relax, he was out there doing things until he could no more. It wasn't that he didn't desire respite, it that he felt, he could never afford it. So he pushed himself harder, focusing on his opponent in an effort to remove Ranger Nailo from the cage.

Still, there were few things he had noticed but didn't care about. To Seth life was just a formality, deep down he sought death and as its seeker, death naturally recoiled. Why would the Angel want a victim that would take delight in its embrace? So, it seemed Death would not strike today. Lunging forward ignoring the blazing speed of the Drow he moved into the whip, letting it cut deeply into his flesh. Once more the sickening sound of skin splitting could be heard as he ignored the incoming pain.

He wasn't here to survive. He sought death whole heartedly, and with his heart set upon it, it was only a matter of whose death. Daggers were pressed forward in an effort to make it his opponent. He was beyond caring anymore. His berserker stance on fighting meant more often than not he would confuse and destroy his opponents, and it was his hope that he could whole heartedly find Liliana, his guardian Angel. Still he knew she wouldn't approve of his tactics, and it burned his heart to know he was becoming that which she hated in the pursuit of her.

It was this that caused him to want to die, to be the Death Seeker, and commit the atrocity of suicide. Even if aided by his opponents, he wanted to die. However, not an iota of this wish seemed to surface in the slowly dying eyes of Seth. He was giving into his demons, who cackled gleefully as he stabbed the daggers forward, reversing his grip so that they would extend from his fists becoming the tools of war. While Spite and Malice were in his hands, he knew Ebony and Ivory were in his heart, waiting for that fateful draw.

If he drew them, there would be no holding back.

[Nightsangel]

Sivienna's shoulders slumped dramatically at the elephant's overzealous display. Trying to resist the urge to bring out her wolves just to tear the flesh from the annoying talking elephant. Sivienna turned away from the beast just as it got into a comedic stance. Shaking her head a soft 'tsk tsk' came from the beauty's lips as she folded her arms squarely across her chest. Looking the animal right in the eyes, her own lilac ones glowed briefly before she said clearly "Put up your dukes? Where do you think we are? A world where fighting with your hands is well known?" Running her tongue over her lips softly, Sivienna pulled out her dragon bone claws and slipped then daintily over her graceful hands. Moving so that her arms were poised in a fighting stance she murmurs coyly "If your up for being elephant soup you fool....then I’ll gladly fight you." Pointing one claw at him she murmurs softly "I gave you a chance to flee...to save that pretty hide of yours and you didn't take my offer...."Closing her lips she murmurs "So...I wish you luck....hopefully you won't regret not taking my offer to let you leave!"

Sivienna then took a few quick steps forward before she ducked down and aimed one of her claws at the elephant's belly. She took into account the fact that while he could dance a mighty fine jig, his speed in combat should be slowed due to his bulk and weight. Counting on this Sivienna put as much force as she she could into the slash before she rolled forward to duck any retaliating blows the large animal my throw her way. Smiling now that she was content, she turned around to survey the damage that she hoped her attack had done.

As she waited for her 'opponents' reaction her eyes fell briefly on the side show before her. Concern filled her eyes when she noticed that Seth's normally warm eyes had grown cold, and that his movements were quick and callous. The demons she knew and had experienced were in their full swing and show. Sighing as she heard the sickening crunch of metal going into flesh. She winced as her eyes immediately darkened as the scent of more fresh blood dotted the soft mat of the cage. Turning her eyes away from the tantalizing sight of Seth's fresh wound, her eyes lingered across the metal snaking of the cage.

The chains while bolted down, could be uncoiled if necessary. Blinking as she moved closer to one, she ran a claw over the metal before she looked at her opponent. Uncoiling one, she held the chain like a rope as she turned with it in her hands. An idea was forming in her mind, but for it to succeed she needed to know whether or not her attack had hit Chumely. If it did work, her next plan was to use the chain like a rope and tie up the elephant...so that even if he tired to escape the chains would entangle him so greatly, that he could do nothing more but watch as his partner was merciless slaughtered by Seth...and a sigh escapes her lips as she thinks softly If Seth needs my assistance he's got it...as much as I hate him for leaving behind...I do need to help him...its the only way I’ll be able to hide out and avoid the trouble that I know is looking for me....

[chumley]

"NO BLADES, NO BLADES!" Chumley roared as the wench latched on her weapons. "This is a fair fight you malevolent harpy! This side of Dublin we use our fists when we toe the line! Put those back from whence they came." The elephant's bile rose in his throat at the sight of such treachery. This was a boxing match, not a butcher shop. If this weasel wanted to battle with blades, she had no place battling an American - perhaps an Italian would oblige her. The pachyderm appraised the winsome cockatrice's attack as she stepped forward, slicing for his belly.

"Rapscallion!" Chumley roared. He punched for her attacking arm, attempting to waylay her jab. "A honorable attacker would announce the beginning of the round!" His right cross, an admirable swipe at her offending assault, managed to knock the blade away from his belly, but his arm was not so lucky. A gash was sliced into it, cutting from his nails halfway to his elbow. Chumley bellowed in anguish and fell back, cradling the wounded arm. He stumbled, like a flagellated actor in a Passion Play, an elephant scorned by Lady Luck. "Woe is me!" he wailed, holding the bleeding arm to his chest much as the Madonna held our dead Savior. "By my ivory tusks, you have gone too far! Neither you nor your partner has a sense of honor! You are bound only by the Faustian code of thieves and scoundrels: Rum, Romany and Rebellion."

Chumley, his noble form quaking in pain and anger, stood before his attacker, a Sisyphian opponent whose strength came not from his own body, but from his higher mission: not one of religiosity, of personal achievement or material gain, but of patriotism. He would stand his ground and battle these knaves, not because of the tournament in which he was entered, and not because their reprehensible actions demanded someone to stop them, once and for all. He would keep swinging because he was fighting for the American way. It was a beacon in his mind, calling him forward. And he would not neglect that tocsin. Not ever.

"You may defeat my body," Chumley snarled. "But you can never defeat my purpose." The elephant, espying the sausage stand from which he had purchased a meaty hors d'oeuvre, saw his chance. He stumbled towards it, a plan forming in his head. "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord," Chumley muttered to himself, his a capella rendition of the Republic's great hymn spurring him onward. He ran through most of the lines with a fiery passion in his wheezing breaths, moving into the second stanza as he came to the vendor, leaning up against the booth.

"Excuse me, my fine gentleman," Chumley said to the horrified vendor, who, by the looks of it, was petrified by the battle beyond responding. Chumley snatched at the bottles of mustard and ketchup on the cart and turned back toward the vampiress, a burnished blaze burning in his eyes. "As ye deal with My contemners, so with you My grace shall deal!" The elephant roared, squirting jets of the condiments at the woman's face, a righteous laughter on his lips. He quickly threw the bottles aside and reached for the relish, shot-putting it with his good arm. "Let the Hero, born of elephant, crush the serpent with His heel!" Chumley turned again, and grabbed a long rope of sausages, more than two dozen of them lashed together. He snapped them like a whip, thrashing the old chain. It gave wet cracks like a bullwhip, creating a defensive perimeter, such as was erected around Fredericksburg, through which no wise man would dare pass.

"Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! SINCE GOD IS MARCHING ON!"