Round Two: (4) Strength and Honor v (18) Circus

[Max Dirks]

Round two will begin Friday, May 19th at 12 AM EST. Good Luck!

[Ranger]

Tranquility.

The mind of a warrior is often set on a clear-cut path towards a solitary goal. At times that path shifts, not intentionally but by circumstances and obstacles, and the warrior is forced to shift with them. At other times the path seems to be shortening as the promising warrior follows it, becoming easier with the goal but looming right before them. Unfortunately, however, that path is fraught with a harsh undertone and a stressful life that often defeats the fighter long before an opponent will. It is tranquility that they seek, a true sense of peace deep down that they need in order to eventually grasp their goal. It is tranquility that most take for granted, or disregard completely.

Ranger was different though.

Youth and middle-age (at least for an elf) had brought him along a path of arduous choices and distressed living. He had fled from that because of many surface problems, but it was the problems deep down that pushed him in the end. He had forgotten to seek tranquility first in all things, forgotten to put his faith in something higher then himself and as a result had given into a life of difficulty and heartache. Things had changed when he had become at first a cleric, and then further progressed as a prophet of the Thayne.

An inner calm and peace were now cherished before all by the drow. His life had become easier, and even when subjugated to situations of great strain he was constantly at ease. The Lornius Corporate Challenge was not unlike any other situation. It had its stressful situations, as well as its precarious and often dangerous traps, but Ranger had not let it bother him. His partner had helped plenty, not only with the fighting, but also with comforting him.

The first round of the tournament had brought about a stab from the past. The child, thief Seth Dahlios had been a rather dark foe from the past and it was through the Thayne’s hand alone that he had been selected as Ranger’s first round opponent. The battle had ended nearly a week previous, but it was not time that had helped the drow, but Chumley. The elephant’s constant jovial attitude, its often humorous dance and song routine, and even its flowery (and quite unique) dictions had all combined to support the drow prophet with his personal confusions.

Ranger had felt the elephant had been more support off the field of battle, as a teammate who truly cared, then he himself had been during the battle. For that he had been truly sorry and had not only promised himself but also Chumley that things would change. They would be a true team and it would be neither of their faults if they went no further then the next round; neither they nor many other people believed that though.
~*~
The wind was truly a gift of the Thayne. It was light, soft, and carried with it a hint of the sweet smell of wildflowers that grew along the hillside. Overhead the sun was just rising and cutting through the fog that lingered along the hill’s side. The apex of the hill was untouched by the fog though, leaving it to appear as a mountaintop’s peak instead of a simple hills crest. The sky was streaked with mere wisps of clouds, high and thin, spread even thinner by the light winds.

All in all it was beautiful, the epitome of serenity.

Ranger’s expectations had been no less then what he had received. In the backdrop were the looming summits of the Lotho Mountain range. Before the drow were the foreboding twin mountains of the Shingo range. However, what he had truly come for was not the sight but the next round in a rather precious Althanas tournament. It had been an impressive first round, but the drow prophet was in the state of mind to forget it and move on.

‘Omnipotent Thayne, hear my cry. I plead of you to give me the strength to carry on not only in this tournament but in life. Your precious gift of forgiveness and a new life under your guidance has not been taken for granted, and with it I see how much I need to change. Yet pieces of the past are struggling to surface once again and I fear my strength is spread far too thin…’

Ranger was struggling. Before him was a small altar on an even smaller dais dedicated to the Thayne. Lornius did not seem to have much in the way of religious affiliations with any of the patriarch of Althanas, and as such seemed to be lacking a significant amount of temples and places of worship. After a gentle inquiry the officials of the tournament had offered him directions to one of the few, along the east side of the Lotho Mountains, directly at the center. He had promised to return to the pre-made battleground they made for the next round of the tournament but something in their eyes said that Chumley and he would not have to.

‘It is only through your guidance and the love of the people will I remain whole and continue on in my newfound existence. I fear the next duo of opponents, ones known as Strength and Honor by tournament name, may be sent here to do battle with my companion and myself. Dear Thayne, I beg of you, protect this small yet vital temple to you. It stands nearly alone on this island and the people need it just as much as they need you in Radasanth, or Scara Brae.’

Deep down the drow was truly concerned. It was heartfelt and yet felt selfish. He knew of the strength of Letho Ravenheart, his courage, and had heard stories that made him seem like a hero of epic magnitude. At that mans side was the High General. Ranger did not know much, if anything, about the demon named Zieg dil’ Tulfried beyond his wisdom and the rumors of the revolutionary change in his underground realm.

‘With your blessing I depart,’ the prophet said as he lifted himself from the rough stone floor. There were no ornaments along the walls, no gilded columns as support, or even pictures of long forgotten warriors and battles. The dedication and patience for the temple extended little past its simple shape and no work beyond the bare necessity to keep it standing had taken place. However depressing it was Ranger felt at home within it, as he did with all temples, and he felt the need to protect it from harm.

((The temple has the spell ‘miracle’ cast upon it. Any wayward spells, bullets, arrows, people, whatever thrown at it will either bounce off (in the case of projectiles) or will simply not harm it (in the case of people). Unless you can see magic the spell will be completely invisible, and Ranger doesn’t even know about it.))

[Letho]

Despite the tendency of the skeptical folk to prove him otherwise, Letho’s gut wasn’t just a heap of intestines with sole purpose to digest. No, more often then not, there was a queer feeling in his abdomen, this peculiar sense of wrongness that brought disquiet and concern in tow. Sometimes this sensation was an oracle, a premonition of something malicious lurking around the corner, a warning sign that oftentimes saved him from making a misstep. However, that wasn’t what he felt today. Then again, sometimes it was simply his consciousness indirectly correcting his actions, a voice of a nonexistent mentor that instructed him on the wrongs and rights. But that wasn’t what he felt today either.

What he felt today, standing in a patch of white lilies-of-the-valley on the slope of a hillock on the island of Lorinus, was utter insipidity.

His gauntleted hand was like a claw of a monster compared to the fragile flower he held on his palm, looking at the unremarkable suave petals and seeing everything but the current environment. There was something in him, a disease that started with a rebellious thorn in his side and wound up claiming dominion over his body, his thoughts, his emotions. He couldn’t determine with absolute certainty when this appeared, but it seemed to be culminating at this very moment. He didn’t feel weak or tired or even melancholic (which was one of the bigger words that Myrhia liked to overuse when trying to describe his broody demeanor), but rather just apathetic towards whatever stood before him in the Lorinus Corporate Challenge.

Breeze swept over his stoic image like a caress of a lover, tossing his black leather coat and taking the white lily away from his palm and on the short flight to its fragrant look-alikes below. His bulky figure was like an unwelcome guest in the picturesque flora. Myrhia’s figure wouldn’t be though. She would smile and put some flowers in her fiery hair and just let her mirth run rampant, unrestrained, innocent... Perfect. The thought crept in a smile on his stern face.

“Would you miss me, Letho?” she asked with a sincere concern in her mousy voice on the night before he left for Lorinus. He tried to explain to her just how much he would miss her, but only now he was able to explain to himself the exact magnitude of how much he missed her. And he finally tracked down the source of his lack of interest. It wasn’t the fact that Myrhia wasn’t right here, right now, standing at his side, restless and scared as always on the verge of a battle. No, Myrhia was exactly where she needed to be, in Willowtown, Corone, sitting on the front porch and staring over the endless tiled fields that spread around Willow Hill like a chess board. She was home. And he was not. And his gut was a mirror that reflected the thoughts he so foolishly hid behind terms like strength and honor.

This should have been enough to make him turn his back to the temple that stood atop of the mound, but the good old male pride and ego, combined with the fact that he had a partner in this competition, ensured him to push forwards. “Always finish what you start, maggot!” Lothirgan always said. “If you take a bite of dung, you best damn swallow it.”. Letho would finish what he started. It had nothing to do with honor anymore, but duty to Zieg, himself and the pyramid of values that stood chiseled in his mind. He kept the realization for later, for some other tournament, as a reminder of how pointless this chest-beating displays are and how they would never again separate him from the thing he loved.

***

“A holy man, huh?” the dark swordsman thought as he strolled into the temple with little concern for the serenity of the moment and his pious adversary. He fought in a holy place once already. In a Serenti cathedral he fought the Lavinian Demon and nearly lost the thing he cherished the most. But compared to the lofty church back in Corone, the place of their reckoning was relatively austere and mundane. The walls seemed keen to add to his blandness with their monotonous gray hue, lacking the grandiose depictions of saints or prophets or whatever the hell they had in Lorinus. It was a simple battlefield, allowing the combatants to focus more on their fighting prowess and less on the three hundred paces deep chasm like in the previous round.

The devout elf that stood before him was rather unimposing, his lissome figure getting up from the futile prayer to the gods of the temple. The sullen swordsman failed to slow his advance, the rhythmic clinking of his boots and his gunblade the only sound in the frigid interior. “You think they care – the gods – about what happens with us on this day? Or any day for that matter? Do you really think a prayer can turn the tides of a battle?” Letho’s voice came hard and stern, reverberating thought the room as he looked at the silver haired drow. “They don’t and it can’t. Unless it serves their purpose, of course.”

With this said, the dark knight stopped and leant his shoulder on one of the sturdy marble columns. “Ah, but where are my manners. I am Letho Ravenheart.”

[chumley]

Thursday the 14th

I awoke on this dewy morn with the queer lack of refreshment one only feels after rousing and finding oneself in the hospital. It was, I verily believe, a consequence of the battle yesterday against the Irishman Seth Dahlios and his satanic succubus of an ally. The scars I sustained during the battle, itself marred by the destruction of several sausages of such a quality I have not seen in the meat markets of the Californian metropolises for quite some time, required the fruits of my body's nocturnal nap. I therefore found myself groggy and unwashed, quite unlike the pristine condition I can usually be accounted for upon waking (the difference was like that between Buchanan and Fremont - if only the Democratic Party had been as discerning as I!).

A cadre of monks, whose association to the ongoing tournament or my hieratical partner is unclear, drove me from the inn where I had spent the evening. I was confused, albeit pleased, to learn from one of the portly priests that I had been invited to a meeting of the "Althanas Purity Society," an ostensibly august association of gentlemen who had borne witness to my battle the day before and wished to have me address them at a fortnightly luncheon. Having been given the location of the federation's club, I made my way there through a dismally decorated town. It seemed to be entirely populated by soot-encrusted child laborers, Jewish usurers and Italian butchers: Truly a Hades worthy of Mr. Dickens's pen! I ascertained from an urchin that I was in a land known as "Lornius," a part of "Althanas." I have never heard of these kingdoms, but I believe they may be some of the Asiatic fiefdoms currently being grappled over by the British and Tsarist empires. I pray for the safety and well-being of these gentle citizens. They are truly wretched, living in a hellish land worthy of de Sade's imagination. I cannot believe that G-d in His wisdom created this "Lornius" - the mind that conceived it must have been that of a syphilitic madman, enraged at the thought of happiness or jest, desiring only to punish those who did not share his dyspeptic demeanor.

However, I entered the club of the Althanas Purity Society in high spirits, bouyed by the memory of the apparition of His Excellency, Abraham Lincoln, who appeared to me as if in a dream yesterday. He seemed not to speak with his own voice, but with another's, in a way that seemed oddly familiar (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Parody). It is no matter, however. Whatever place this Haidia is, I feel compelled to go there when this tournament is done. I believe that all able-bodied people should attempt to travel there. Not only has it been blessed by His Excellency, but people should travel beyond the continent they know well in order to expand their horizons.

Little did I know the true nature of the Althanas Purity Society. I began my address, after being introduced by the Society's President as "a great galoot of a gray gremlin," with a quotation of George Washington that has always warmed the cockles of my heart. I was not able to continue my speech, however, for an elderly gentleman in the back of the room stood up and hollered up at me:

"WHO THE HELL IS GEORGE WASHINGTON?!"

"Why," I responded, perplexed, "He is only the Father of the United States of America, the country from which I hail. Why, he had the sturdiness of Zesus and the moral surety of Job..." Before I could continue, however, another wrinkled old man, dressed in a tuxedo, wobbled to his feet and raised his hand. He yelled at me, his voice pickled by age until it was naught but a reedy rasp:

"WHAT DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH ALTHANAS?!" He then suffered from a fit of gout and fell to the floor, writhing in agony. It was then that I realized that I had entered a room entirely populated by the oldest, surliest, angriest, wrinkliest, wheeziest men ever assembled. I was astounded by the sheer size of the number that would be produced if all their ages were added together. It was like being surrounded by a thousand Methuselahs driven into a beastial rage by senility. And judging from the number of empty bottles on their dinner tables, they were pickled by alcohol as well as advanced age.

"Talk about Althanas!" an oldester in a wheelchair with an IV of applesauce strapped to his wrist wheezed. "If it doesn't belong in Althanas, we don't want to hear about it!"

"But... I'm not from Althanas!" I managed to force out over the chorus of approbation from the assembled ancients. This sentence briefly silenced them, but the brevity of the pause was matched only by the uproar that followed. The geezers rattled to their feet, waving their gnarled fists in anger.

"YOU CALL THAT AN EXCUSE!?" the President gasped, shuffling toward me. "I'll show you an excuse, you baggy bastard!" The old fellow withdrew from his waistcoat a pistol, and painfully attempted to pull the trigger with an arthritis ridden finger. His wisened hand couldn't handle the strain, and it fell off entirely, a cloud of dust exploding into the air. He looked at his stub of a wrist in a confused manner, and I took that chance to dash past him, knocking him aside.

"You have bones as brittle as your temper, old man!" I yelled over my shoulder.

"WAS THAT A JOKE?!" The crowd responded, stampeding towards me at a snail's pace. "JOKES DON'T BELONG ON ALTHANAS! TAKE THEM BACK TO ENGLAND!"

"I moved from England when I was but a lad!" I cried in response. "I've lived in America since... wait, how did you know..." I had no time to question their logic, however, as I found myself up against a wall, trapped before a barrier as impenetrable as the Great Wall of China. "This barrier is as impenetrable as the Great Wall of China!" I cried. But then, I realized, deep in my heart, down among the swirling ether of patriotism and love of freedom that keep my soul aflame, that nothing blocks a determined elephant. I took a few steps back and charged forward, bursting through the wood.

"You can't do that! You said it was impenetrable!" the geezers cried.

"I was speaking metaphorically!" I responded, stumbling from the wreckage of the side of the building. It was then that I realized that I stood at the edge of a cliff that blocked all hope of salvation (except that of Our Savior, which is always open to those with willing hearts). The geezers were at my back, and in fifteen more minutes they would shuffle close enough to finish me off. I was doomed.

Then I base-jumped off the cliff and escaped.

I landed in a field of flowers before a grand temple, hewn from the finest marbles and granites I had ever clapped my sad, sorry eyes upon. Untangling myself from my silk parachute, I approached it, straightening my top hat. Its spires, adorned with thousands of minutely carved pagan gods - depraved graven images deplored by the True G-d - were beautiful despite their blasphemy. I entered the temple's main entrance, which was flanked by two bowls of burning incense. Inside were two rows of marble pillars, surrounding a black granite pathway that extended toward a small altar, framed by a beam of light that came down in a delicate shaft through a hole in the ceiling. On either side of the pillars, shrouded in darkness as black as Seth Dahlios's self-image, were pools of lava, incandescent with their geothermal glow. A grinning clown of a god was depicted in two horrific statues to either side of the entrance, leering over the molten goop. The stench of sulfur was in the air, which I found appropriate because everyone who believes in this savage religion is probably going to Hell.

Still, though, the sight was an awesome one. So awesome, in fact, that I found myself caught in a bout of introspection. I contemplated why I was fighting in this tournament. I considered my spiritual upbringing. I thought about people I loved (mostly President Lincoln). I mused over many things. It would probably take two or three paragraphs full of long-winded sentences and adjectives I found in my pocket thesaurus (a gift from my grandfather, Lionel) to recount them here. I think I interacted with my surroundings, but then my mind started to wander, and I realized that those old men were probably readying their hanggliders for pursuit while I stood around like what remained of Lot's wife. Bunching up my courage, I strode forward toward the figures I saw ahead.

"Dear sirs!" I called out. "Please tell me you have a passing knowledge of the Bible, Greek mythology, Shakespearean literature and American history! If so, mayhaps you can help me fend off these ageing hooligans who are tracking me down as we speak."

((To make it clear, the absurd description of the temple is just Chumley's elaboration in his diary.))

[Zieg dil' Tulfried]

The morning of the beginning of the second round...

As the sun slowly peaked over the mountainous ridge of the Shingo Range, Zieg dil' Tulfried was sleepy rather peacefully. Having had a good week to recover from the simple battle against 'The Rookies,' Zieg spent the time enjoying the scenary of Lornius. It was so different from the rocky underworld of Althanas, so vibrant and full of energy. He enjoyed the solemnity of the mountains, not seeing anyone but his lifelong companion Xeppa and his partner Letho in the past week.

A low growl awakened Zieg from his slumber, opening his eyes to the sunrise. Rolling over, the demon turned just in time to see Xeppa, a little brown dog, jumping at him. He bit and clawed at Zieg, viciously drawing blood from the man's face. He shouted out in surprise, unclear as to why his companion was attacking him. The knight was finally able to knock the mutt away, clutching one hand to his face, blood running through his gloved fingers.

"Xeppa! Why?" Zieg asked aloud as he slowly stood up. The brown dog stood a few feet away, baring his teeth and showing his might. Before Zieg's eyes, he transformed into his Magim Beast form, stretching his wings to their full length.

Fool. The muscles in Xeppa's hind legs rippled as he jumped from the ground and took flight. He circled once over Zieg and flew off into the distance. Zieg fell backwards to the ground as if the force of Xeppa's lift off blew him back. He sat there staring up at the sky, watching Xeppa disappear into a tiny speck.

~~~~~~~~~

The afternoon of the beginning of the second round...

Zieg's heart was not with him as he walked into the temple that afternoon. The betrayal of his closest friend had hit the large demon hard. The only thing that motivated him to come to the battle was his loyalty and respect for Letho. He did not deserve a partner that abandoned him, and so he would not.

All day, Zieg had wondered why Xeppa had betrayed and left him. It almost felt as though it hadn't happened. The fresh slashes on his face served as a painful reminder how real it truly was though. In his mind he went through the past few weeks, trying to find some sign that Xeppa was going to betray him. He could sense nothing. Even the previous night, they had sat in front of a fire and talked of past experiences.

The High General found nothing that would indicate that his closest friend would do this to him. He agonized over it, and even at that moment as he walked through the heavenly protected temple to the second round of the tournament, he was destroying himself inside to find something.

He stepped into the main room of the temple, finding everyone already inside. He quietly nodded to Letho and silently stood waiting for the fight to begin. He made no effort to introduce himself, no effort to be cordial. He responded to none of his opponent's questions. He was just too preoccupied.

[Ranger]

Before he spoke the elven ears had heard him. His boots were heavy, thick, and clicked as he walked. His breath was light and calm. There was little in the way of clicking steel or clanging armor, so Ranger instantly believed it had to be Letho. From what he had heard of the man he wore little armor. Zieg on the other hand wore much. The platinum eyes fell on the altar as the elven prophet counted steps and waited. The man was big from his stride, heavier then the prophet too.

‘And so the battle begins,’ Ranger thought as he listened to the curious, or perhaps simply spiteful tone. The man’s voice was just as impressive as his reputation. A small, quaint smile formed across the façade of the elderly warrior. His thin, pale lips spread just enough to show the pristine teeth beneath. Yet he had not turned. He showed no fear, kept his back to his opponent. If anything was to happen so soon Ranger would not fear it. ‘I fear however that this small, hallowed temple may fall due to the strength of the opponents that have come. Thayne please, hold your temple together if nothing more.’

Ranger turned. One hand trailed as he crooked, caressing the altar with hope still in the air. The other hand tucked a loose strand of silver hair behind a long, sharp ear. What the drow came to see what more impressive then he had expected. Letho Ravenheart, the hero of Corone, the exile from Salvar. His face was as solid as stone. His hair was cropped short and high, still vibrant with his young life. His beard was thick and course, perfectly characteristic of those from Salvar. But something was different about him; something was darker about his visage.

He was as pale as the midnight moon. His eyes were of the deepest brown, but missed that life-like glint. Ranger allowed his eyes to dwindle for only half-a-second longer before offering a response. “I apologize answering a question with another, but why do you not believe? What has happened in the past to suggest other than tender results in your believe of the Thayne?” The drow’s tone was slow, deliberate. His face was blank except for the genuinely curious glint in his silver eyes. He continued to look over his opponent with a passive, and yet caring eye. “I do believe, Sir Ravenheart, in the power and graces of the Thayne. I have passed through troubles and tribulations in the past, and yet their love continues to help me through each time.”

With a light bow and a straight face Ranger shifted. “My name is Ranger Nailo, prophet of the Thayne.” What more was there to say? Nothing more without going into cliché ramblings that humanity seemed famous for. Luckily he was spared a little more time as another entered the small cathedral. Unfortunately it was Letho’s partner. The man behind the heavy titanium armor was the one known as Zieg.

He was far less impressive then his companion, somehow. He carried a heavy blade, dawned heavy armor, and walked with a heavy stride. But, to the eye of the elf, he was weak. It was not something outside, but something inside. His eyes claret eyes were heavy. He had come to battle weak, despite the time since the last battle, and it was that weakness that Ranger spotted before all.

To the side Chumley stood. Ranger had not even seen him enter. He supposed he had been too busy sizing up the powerful warrior Letho to notice. A small smile lit the drow’s face as he looked at the elephant, but his face too was different. He was downcast, confused. Ranger barely restrained a sigh. He too had a companion that had come broken. He too had a companion that would most likely shatter easily under the pressure of battle. The question was posed no to Chumley or Zieg, but to their companions.

Which of the two would be able to hold their companion’s together?

The titanium headed spade of the elf slipped from the sling across his back. It was warm to the touch, welcoming. Ranger’s hands fell in the same spot they had found every time he wielded the weapon. Soon, he held no doubt; there would be grooves in the weaker oak shaft. The drow left the companions of ‘Strength and Honor’ and gave his sole attention to his partner. “Whenever you are ready, dear Chumley, I am here with you.”

[Letho]

Though he was notified he was to confront an elephant in this round, there were no words that could prepare him for Chumely and his disposition. He saw these thick-skinned pachyderms before, but never bipedal and most definitely not nearly as articulate as the one that stood before him. Even though, truth be told, most of that eloquence was wasted on ramblings that meant as much to Letho as if they were spoken in a foreign tongue. “Thought he would be bigger though.” was the swordsman’s initial thought after the nonsensical introduction. These animals tended to be mammoths, not six-foot-something with a face that Myrhia would describe as just too damn cute and harmless to hurt. But she wasn’t around and Letho had no issues with beating an elephant to a pulp.

Before he was able to respond to Chumley’s futile plea for aid – which only added to the surprise for what kind of competitor enters a bout and ask for help from his adversaries? – Zieg entered the temple and instantly got Letho worried. It wasn’t the silent demeanor that did the trick though since that was the demon's usual foible, and it weren’t the scars on his face either that were still so fresh the swordsman could see the blood only starting to coagulate and form scabs. It was the fact that Xeppa was nowhere to be seen. The Magim Beast was Zieg’s most trusted companion and only now, when he focused on it and allowed a short retrospection, Letho realized that he never saw the demon High General without his deadly pet. On top of all that, Zieg looked a whole lot like somebody held him at gunpoint and let him to these hallowed grounds. More then enough of a reason to be worried.

“Zieg, you alright? Where’s Xeppa?” the dark knight inquired after a rather indifferent nod from his ally.

The ash-skinned elf was either being condescending or strangely benign and serene when he replied to Letho’s question, giving the swordsman a short and bleak sermon. Letho held no particular interest in deities and the senseless worship. Religion, faith and the mysterious ways in which the gods worked were a scar on the knight’s heart for a long while now. Because once a horde of barbarians rape your pregnant wife simply because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and then proceed to disembowel her and rip the child from her bleeding womb while she is still whimpering... Once you see all of that happening under the wing of the endless love that the gods offer, your faith wasn’t shaken, it was murdered in the cruelest manner imaginable. Letho cried out to the gods on that fateful day. They didn’t answer. That pretty much terminated his contract with the puppeteers above.

“They turned their back on me, Ranger Nailo, and I turned my back on them.” the swordsman replied in a royal, righteous tone, though he displayed no enmity in the hue of his voice. His hand brandishing a massive gunblade might have though. Letho placed the tawny weapon on his shoulder lightly, keeping his eyes on the drow and Chumely in his peripheral vision. “I think it’s a fair deal. But let us not make this a religious conflict. Some of the most atrocious deeds are done in their name and we are here merely to compete, are we not?”

Letho allowed a grin, a half-knavish, half-confident thing that only touched the corner of his lips before it vanished, and lowered his titanic weapon so that it stood diagonal at his flank. “So let’s compete.”

His eyes flashed for a fraction of a second, bringing about a fragment of that familiar flare that always twinkled in his browns when he engaged an enemy, and he burst forward like a fired bullet. He charged for the white-haired drow, but then changed his trajectory drastically at the last moment, darting sideways and keeping his gunblade at his side to assure that his opponent didn’t come at his flank. His left leg pumped up, his right foot landing on the edge of the illuminated altar, instantly launching the knight in an arc that had Chumely as the end point. The gunblade came in a diagonal downwards slash, aimed for the thing’s meaty shoulder with a serious tendency to cleave the bulky creature. The elephant was utterly ridiculous in his tall hat and human attire, but he would find no mercy or aid today. Lorinus Corporate Challenge was a wrong place to seek such things and Letho, who held battles sacred for the ability to show the true face of the person, was the wrong person to be asked.

[chumley]

As I approached the two men lurking in the pagan temple, I realized with a compounding horror that one of them was my partner, the priest Ranger, and he appeared to be praying before the heathen altar! I had known he was a priest of some manner, but I had thought he was a Lutheran, or at worst a papist. Now all became clear. This “Ranger,” if that was his name at all, had tricked me into allying with a follower of a Golden Calf. As the priest stood, I saw his face with a new clarity. His eyes were set too close together, one of them a lazy eye that roamed across the room. His hair was as tangled and greasy as the hair on a fisherman’s back. His teeth were jagged and crooked, his nose hooked, his back hunched.

“And so,” I gasped, “All becomes clear. Satanist!” I cried. I turned to the other man in the temple, but he was even more unsettling. I have been to several freak shows in southern Nevada put on by itinerant Mormons and their bands of malformed dwarves. Yes, in my time I have seen many bearded ladies, but never one quite this hideous. I gaped at the monstrosity, unsure of what to do next. Should I continue fighting alongside my snaggletooth barbarian of a partner, or should I join forces with this sick fiend? The sound of approaching footsteps at the entrance to the temple gave me a third shock. Certain the codgers had shuffled after me, I turned, putting up my fists, ready to rain blows down on their desiccated skulls. Instead of the army of mummies I expected, I saw only one man, obviously a bit younger than any member of the Althanas Purity Society, hobbling into the temple. I only had to glance at him for the briefest of seconds before what he was became obvious: A fairy-ass.

Once again, my acute memory, the sort which has made my fellow elephants famous, served me well. I recalled an extravaganza several years earlier, before the War Between the States sapped a generation’s vitality and robbed the nation of its sweet innocence like a giant vampire raping a small girl. It was held by the Prince of Siam (also a fairy-ass) to celebrate his thirtieth birthday. I was invited by pure error, but my eminence preceded me, and the host was too embarrassed by overlooking my name on the guest list to begin with to nullify my invitation. With my usual classy verve, I had entered the party and within minutes had the assembled host eating peanuts out of the palm of my hand. I was Benjamin Franklin, and they were the ladies of Paris. As I began to rip into a few of my stories about the Mexican War, in which I strangled seven Mexicans – a pusillanimous race - with my bare trunk, when the birthday cake was wheeled in. It smelled of ambrosia the gods would have been delighted to munch upon, and took the form of a miniature Siamese castle, wrapped in the purest Honduran chocolate and Andean gold foil (I look forward to the day that those Latin-blooded republics are incorporated into the free-loving American Republic, as is their and our manifest destiny). We all politely applauded. Then, with a splatter of frosting, a figure emerged from within the cake. It was immediately obvious that some of the local wags had paid a woman from a burlesque house to burst from the cake, mocking the prince’s reputation for sodomizing the kitchen staff. I saw his cheeks turn pink as he raised a silky hanky to his pursed lips, and knew the effeminate fellow had been rightly jested upon.

It would have been quite a wheeze had our expectations been fulfilled. Rather, the figure that emerged from the cake was hunched and withered, smelling of dog feces and week-old tuna. There were few gentlemen in the audience who were not appalled by the sight of the old gypsy woman, who cackled gleefully as she stumbled from the cake.

“BEWARE!” she cried, her voice cracking like a pubescent lad reading poetry about continents full of vampires who hate themselves, “BEWARE A FAIRY-ASS AND A BEARDED WOMAN!”

“Well I never!” cried the Prince indignantly. The bearded woman in the corner nodded and burst into tears. The rest of the audience was far less womanly in their response, if no less scandalized.

“We hired an attractive woman to burst out of that cake!” cried a fellow dressed in the fine dark blue and gold of the Army. The gypsy cackled and responded: “It’s what’s inside that counts!” The corporal snorted derisively, said “We’ll see about that!” and withdrew his saber, slitting the old hag from navel to nose. He gasped, leaping back and holding his hand to his mouth. “And I thought… they smelled bad… on the outside!” he yelled. “Who is responsible for this?”

“THE FREEMASONS!” I yelled. The rest of the party seemed to agree with me, for they smashed up all the furniture in the ballroom, lit it on fire, and immediately drove all the affluent white men of the town into exile. Despite the burst of anti-masonic anger of which Millard Fillmore would be proud, the warning of the gypsy has stayed with me ever since. Today, when I saw those two cretins approach, I knew the old bag’s prophecy had come to fruition. My reverie, it seemed, had put me off guard, however. The bearded woman, wielding some weapon that seemed too unwieldy to be invented by anyone except a young Japanese artist, was rushing at my “partner” the pagan priest. Although the fellow was damned to be chewed in Satan’s mighty jaws for eternity for his treachery against my trust, I decided that I must do my Christian duty and save the fellow.

“Watch out, Ranger, you agonizingly atrocious apostate!” I cried, leaping to his rescue. Thank the Almighty I jumped as I did, for it saved both of our lives. The hideous hermaphrodite changed course in mid-assault, slashing into the place I had occupied only moments before. I had dodged certain death, thanks to the dim-witted pagan’s inability to protect himself from his attacker. I almost felt sorry for the way in which I had treated him, but I quickly bolstered my anger. Did William Henry Harrison forgive the savages at Tippecanoe? “Don’t think I have any affection for you, ‘Ranger,’ or should I say JUDAS?” I roared. “Why didn’t you tell me what the nature of your religion was?” The velocity of my attempt to push Ranger from harm’s way kept me moving, and I stumbled to the ground, bouncing like Robespierre’s head across the gallows. “The only reason I saved you was to spare you the torments of the fiery lake!”

[Sighter Tnailog]

Posting was fairly regular for the first few days, and although Chumley's final post came a few days after the preceding one it still left ample time for the completion of the battle. Furthermore, a raw post count reveals that Circus bested Strength and Honor in activity, and Zieg's singular effort did not reveal as much work as the other posters.

Although I hate awarding wins in the absence of a real battle, I really am left with no other choice. Circus progresses to Round Three.