A Grand Day Out: Madison Freebird vs. Rasheed Al-Hazam

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

Another day, another irreplaceable chunk of a finite existence. And, of all the things I could've possibly been doing during these twenty-four hours, I was spending time here. Not researching shit at the library, not staining my hands with someone else's blood for a few gold coins; no, I was at the Dajas Pagoda because some hot shot wanted to make a name for himself. Some punk who wanted to be one of the elites of this cursed establishment, and they decide to pit him up against me because the other five Warriors were conveniently preoccupied, the miserable twats.

At least the weather in my ghostly carnival was nice.

The sun was a piercing white orb hung high in the sky, shining down on the mass of apparitions that populated the midway. The bright rays made them look a bit more washed out than usual, despite the darker shades of their clothing. A slight, warm breeze blew through the park, tossing my raven-black bangs across my forehead as I sat on a bench near the carousel, my eyes furiously tearing through a hardcover edition of "Telekinesis for Nitwits" I snagged from the library last week. I could hear nothing but the noise of everyone and everything; the strange yet cheery music of the ride behind me, little kids asking their mommies for some cotton candy or some money to play the many games with, the shouts of vendors as they tried to sell their unhealthy food and overpriced souvenirs.

I was using the piece of parchment that informed me of today's battle as my bookmark. I didn't bother removing the wax seal to read its contents; it was all the same every time. Blah blah blah name blah blah blah one week from today blah blah blah. So, I had no idea who or what I was going up against. It didn't matter. After I survived yet another Pagoda battle, I planned on having a few words with the management about "evening out the workload" a bit, so to speak.

I looked up from the book long enough to gaze on the ghosts that passed by. At least they seemed to be enjoying themselves as they spent an eternity in the carnival. I couldn't help but to feel a bit jealous towards them. Not a damn care in the world, and not ashamed to show it. A roller coaster car screamed past two hundred feet above and behind me, the riders getting the thrill of an after-lifetime. I scoffed in vain disapproval.

After finishing the particular section I was on, I sighed deeply as I closed the book. Reaching into the leather satchel that sat beside me on the bench, I pulled out a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich. I nibbled on my lunch as I patiently awaited for my opponent to show up, whoever he or she or it may be.

[Saeleothesis]

The Bloated Man stamped one fat, rotten foot against the street, working up a froth from between his lips as he pulled the cart forward. He was tall, and nearly naked beneath his robe: an almost hilariously undersized pair of worn cotton under-shorts was the only thing that saved the spectral citizens from the sight of his over-ripe phallus, although a wet patch near the front did little to spare them of the idea thereof. His stench -- like that of a bayou graveyard after the floods -- came out in almost physical wave, and the trail of sweat and...other weepings that he left in his wake ensured that any living man so unfortunate as to follow behind would be forced to fight tooth and nail, in order to keep from vomiting. For all of this, the most disquieting thing about the great, sickly thing were his eyes: they blazed like hot yellow fever, even in this strange and washed-out carnival; it was with those same sickly circles flashing that, after not ten feet more, he rounded on his master.

"I hate you for this, Rasheed."

Setting aside a thick docket of papers, the old man looked up cheerfully, offering the sweaty horror a smile in the face of his inhuman glare. Though the atmosphere of the strange festival had all but sucked away the color of his eyes, it could no more hide the happy sparkle inside than it could the darkness of his skin. Leaning forward carefully, so as not to disturb the other deathless passengers, he pushed his face within a few feet of the bald abomination, and cocked his head to one side.

"Now why would you say something like that? Don't you think that I have feelings, too," he asked chidingly.

"No, because if you did, then you would have hired an ox to pull an oxcart, rather than calling me into this world for something so retarded. It's not as if I don't have more important things to be doing; I could be eating right now, you little bastard, not yanking some damn hunk of wood around to satisfy your ego," hissed the obese creature, its words sounding as though they came through a mouth filled to the brim with rotten plants and week-old meat.

"I told you before," replied the older man,folding sighing slightly, "I can't very well go digging up bodies left and right, so you're just going to have to be my rickshaw driver for the day, until we find Mr. Madison and explain our request to him. What if I were to be attacked while you were off eating, huh? What if? Then you'd have nobody to bring you regular meals, and I'd have nobody to pull me along, except to a very shallow grave indeed."

Grunting once again, the towering horror began to pull the almost-empty cart once more, his muscles straining and his breath coming wet and ragged. He passed by colorful stands, and passed through the men and women who had, until their dying moments, tended to and visited them. Almost instinctively, they shied away from the creature, suddenly favoring sidewalks where the street would have otherwise sufficed; all but diving out of the way at his occasional forward lurch. To their senses, this creature was more than just a sickly, over-ripe brute; their hollow eyes saw what twisted and writhed under his skin; they saw the old, dark words written in a hand both sharp and fine, across his very bones.

"Only the thing is," continued the nightmare, thoughtfully, "that 'Madison' isn't really a man's name, is it?"

"Of course it is," replied Rasheed, a bit uncertainly, "what else could it be? It has '-son' on the end, like 'Jamison', or 'Erikson', or 'Masterson'. Strong names: manly names. You're mistaken."

"At least two of those are fictional, and one is a Viking."

"What?"

"Never mind. But Madison is still a woman's name."

Refusing to continue the conversation, the wrinkled old man returned to his work with the papers, picking up a stick of charcoal with one hand and brushing aside his weathered robes with the other. Being careful not to mark beyond the edge of the sheet -- because, ratty as the brown and tan clothes might be, they really were all he had -- he closed the circle he had started earlier, and applied a quick smattering of mystic-looking symbols for good measure. Holding it up to catch the colorless sunlight, he smiled in satisfaction at a job well done, and slapped it onto the chest of the ghost sitting beside him. A momentary rush of color, like that of a sunbeam glancing off of an oil-slick, was the only sign that it had taken...but he'd hardly even needed to check for that.

Pulling out another sheet, he began to trace the circle once more, his eyes sparkling brightly.

"Oh, won't he be surprised..."


-----

"There, that's her."

Rasheed's head drifted up, from his latest batch of circles, ancient eyes narrowing slightly as he caught sight of the woman. She would have been tall for one of his kind, but among these western girls (or was it southern, now? Or, this far away, did such a phrase even apply?) he supposed she was fairly average. Slim, but not in the way of the poor and hungry, she exuded an air of...boredom, perhaps, and anticipation more than anything else, which set her apart from the others around her. Of course, there was also the very pressing fact that she alone, out of all the bustling people in the fair, was actually alive; that was quite the tip-off as well. Tucking the scripts carefully into a pocket of his plain brown robes, the old man shifted past the half dozen still spirits that occupied the rickshaw, and hopped down nimbly to the street.

"Do you say so, guhl? She certainly looks the part, but I still can't believe that--" be began, but was rudely interrupted by the horror crying out, as charmingly as it could, in greeting to the pale little raven.

"Miss Madison! Good afternoon!"

Turning his great, sickly head a fraction of an inch, the creature continued, in a much softer tone:

"Stay on your guard with this one. She's got the look of one who likes to eat with her hands, if you know what I mean. And besides, what monk would send you all the way out here just to talk to someone about seeing their grand master?"

Cringing inwardly -- both at the nature of his contact, and at the numerous suggestions being made by his vassal -- Rasheed bowed his head , and added brightly:

"Miss Freebird, good afternoon. I am Rasheed Al-Hazam, humble merchant, priest, and necromancer, and this is my equally humble servant, Logal. A monk at your..." here, he clearly slowed, stumbling over the strange word, "pa-go-da instructed me to speak with you, when I asked to see your grand master. So he commanded, and so I have come."

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

I closed my eyes and leaned my head back, allowing the blinding sun to warm my face. I was beginning to calm down somewhat--my magically-created carnival was one of the few places I could catch some respite. This was a whole different world, one that none of my earthly worries or cares could strangle me. Everything seemed to matter less here, in this world of no consequence; most notably when it came to battle. Here, I could fight without restraint. Sure, the monks looked down on me killing my "students" (which I had a terrible knack of doing anyways), but if they felt like keeping me busy, then I'd be damned if I didn't return the favor; sending them opponent after opponent to heal or revive.

I finished off the sandwich, casually wiping a few renegade bread crumbs off my blackened lips with a sleeve. My challenger still hadn't shown up by now, so I picked up my book and began reading where I left off.

Two ghosts sat down beside me, a mother and her child. The spectral woman had a plump face, her pale gray hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her waist looked as if it were ready to burst out of her elegant outdoor dress. Her transparent fingers were fumbling through her small leather purse. The boy couldn't have been more than eight years old, had he been living. His dark, shaggy hair was blowing in the wind as he watched me intently as I scanned page after page of the book.

Swinging his feet underneath the wooden bench, he leaned over slightly, studying me with empty eyes. "'Scuse me, miss. What'cha readin'?" His voice resonated of innocence.

I thought about ignoring him, but decided to entertain his question instead. "It's a book about magic, kid." Turning slightly towards him, I offered a small, friendly smile. "Want to take a look?"

The boy's eyes widened in excitement, but before he could snatch the book away from me his mom clocked him lightly upside the head. "Brian," she scolded with a shrill voice that hurt my ears, "what did I tell you about talking to strangers? Be quiet and eat your lunch." The pudgy woman shoved a hamburger into his hands. The kid begrudgingly crammed it into his mouth. Ketchup--or what I could only guess was ketchup--oozed out of the corner of his mouth as he ate.

Whoosh. Whoosh.

That was the all-too-familiar sign that my opponent had arrived. Over the days I learned that the portal had a tendency to drop people in the midway. The bench I was sitting on was parked near the far end of the rows of games and food stalls, so I was at the perfect place to keep an eye out for anything living. Off in the distance, I could hear the thundering of some awfully heavy footsteps and the tell-tale grinding of wooden axles. I blocked out the blinding brightness of the sun with a hand and squinted, but the transparency of the crowd of ghosts made everything blurry.

The footsteps grew louder and louder. After a few seconds, the sea of specters parted, revealing a massive... thing, for a lack of better word. I cocked an curious eyebrow as the creature approached me. He remotely looked human, but at the same time it didn't. Waves of rotting flab cascaded down every inch of his body, which was covered by a plain cloth robe and a very small pair of cotton shorts that, to my disgust, had a very noticeable stain on the front. His eyes shone brightly underneath folds of spotted flesh and muscle.

Slowly marking my page with the battle notice once more, I looked up into the sky. My whisper was harsh, condemning whichever monk set up today's battle. "What the fuck did I do to deserve this? This guy should've been Orun's or Dan's responsibility..." I drummed my fingers against the rough wooden bench. My day had just taken another turn for the worse. What's next, the government of Scara Brae banning alcohol?

As the creature got within a good thirty feet, it stopped. He released the wooden handles from his grasp, setting the cart he carried behind him to the ground. A withered, slightly decrepit man jumped out from behind the obese monstrosity. His skin, thanks to the designs of my carnival, was just as dark as the plain set of robes he wore. His beard was a scraggly salt-and-pepper-colored mess. The wrinkles in his face reminded me of a topographic map of the Jagged Mountains in Corone. And yet: His posture, his general aura, and his corked sandals gave off the impression that he was just an ordinary old man, despite the thing that carried him to me that suggested otherwise. I darkly mused about pitting this guy and that new Warrior guy, Teric Bloodrose, against each other and taking bets over who would have a heart attack first.

As I stood up from the bench to properly introduce myself, the obese creature shouted a deep, yet cheerful greeting. The stench of his rotting flesh finally reached me--it was as if a family of undead skunks had a nasty case of diarrhea. The highly offensive odor instantly made my eyes tear up. I quickly put an arm up to block my nose from any further assaults. My lunch started to make my way back up my throat as I quickly fanned away some of the air.

"Hi," I weakly responded between clenched teeth.

The dark man bowed his head slightly and introduced himself as Rasheed Al-Hazam, and the abomination as Logal. The man had a bit of a funny accent, stumbling over the word "pagoda" as if it were upper-level alchemy. He also mentioned something about being told to come here to speak to me about meeting the Grandmaster of the Dajas Pagoda.

My voice dripped with venom as I wiped a tear from my eyes. The initial blast of Logal's awful stench was beginning to subside. "Yeah, unfortunately, you have to go through me and one of the Masters before they'll let you see Zerith. But as much as I'd love to entertain any questions you have, I've got one of my own." I shot a bony finger at the obese creature standing idly next to him. "Please, can you tell me what the hell that thing is?"

[Saeleothesis]

The great, rotten thing's face broke into a broad grin that quite literally stretched from one edge of his face to the other, showing off an almost impossible number of sharp, needle-like teeth layered in rows. Dark fluid pooled in the odd corners, although the strange tint of the carnival world made it impossible to tell if it was blood, saliva, or something else entirely; in any case, the terrible stench that had preceded his coming flowed out of his maw, fivefold what it had been before. A thick, phlegmy wad of ichor sprayed out as, against all logic, he let out impossibly dainty peals of laughter at the woman's rude question of his nature, and at the bright tears that welled in her bright little eyes.

"'Thing', Miss Madison? You're a saint to say so. But don't you think that I'm going to kiss on the first date, just because you've got a silver tongue in your mouth," he gasped, pounding a meaty fist against his bare, veiny bosom; at every beat came the impression of something giving way beneath the skin. Still chortling, Logal slapped his lips together, and threw the girl an almost obscenely suggestive wink.

"Of course, the way you're going on, I might just have to reach in there and take it out."

Paling as much as he could, given the circumstances, the Necromancer clamped one hand upon the near shoulder of his beast, and shot the horror a look of sheer mortification, before turning his attention back to Madison.

"Logal! This woman is here as a favor to us, and she doesn't want or need to hear your jokes. If you'd forgive him, I would appreciate it: much like myself, he isn't from around here. If it would smooth things over, my friend is just an old helper who came with me from my homeland to your island, out of a sense of concern about my well-being. As such, he's quite obviously a little...over-protective, at times.

But I'm not quite sure that I understand," he continued, stroking his salt and pepper beard with one hand, "what you mean by 'go through you.' It seems very strange, to make a humble and peaceful man such as myself go to such great lengths, just to ask a question."

With every word that passed his lips, the awful stink continued to rise, although the slender old man seemed utterly unaware of the fact. It has passed beyond the point of disgusting, or even offensive; now, like a dead man rearing his head from a water-logged gravesite, it had become worthy of words like 'vile', or 'putrid', or -- should one be so bold; so terribly daring in the face of the thing that had spawned it -- 'malignant'; 'obscene'. Even the ghosts could sense it -- especially the ghosts, perhaps, for at least they could glean a glimmer of understanding as to what the Bloated Man really was -- and they staggered away from the tower of rancid meat and poisons, in a useless attempt to somehow outdistance the odor.

While not yet a panic, it was getting there, by and by.

Those jack-o'-lantern eyes burning bright, Logal -- Algol, ghoul; many names for the same thing -- folded his arms over his sweat-slick chest, and smiled that same damning, shark-like grin as, like a nightmare butterfly, chaos unfolded its wings. The throngs of fairgoers around the three began to cramp up and tumble to the ground, soundless screams straining to scramble out from inside. Torrents of oily, reeking blood gushed out of any available opening, painting the messy street in an artist's palette of black upon black upon black, and draining into wide, maggot-ridden puddles not unlike the fathomless pools which drifted between the horror's many teeth. The ghul might have seemed all a'statue, but his master had entered a state of positive frenzy, beating his withered fists against its back, almost like an ugly double to the pretty, pale little raven: tiny and frail and so very adorable when they tried to peck.

"Stop it! We came to talk to her, not to fight," shrieked Rasheed, his heart thundering in fear and strange, sick excitement at the spreading sickness. His own immunity was likely from the attuned ward he carried, and the salvation of the half-dozen spirits on the cart -- the paint on which was now peeling -- was probably due to the mystic circles...but the dark-haired girl was unquestionably in danger.

"You didn't, but it seems that she and I did. Don't worry, 'master'...I'll leave her alive; she'll simply be more willing to help us cut out the middle-man, and get to our goal all the faster. Surely you can't argue against that?"

Trilling out that strange, charming laughter once more, the Bloated Man roared to his darling raven: "How's that suit you, Miss Madison? If you give up now, and ask real nice, then you might just walk away without your pretty face set to hang on my wall! 'Course, Rasheed's an old softie, just like myself, so I'm sure we can come to a much less interesting agreement, if your dear heart desires!"

((OOC Summary: Logal began releasing an even more horrid stench, building upon what you were already smelling, and what he'd been exuding since he first arrived. Flooding the air with the countless toxins brewing inside of him, he brought the surrounding ghost -- save for those in the back of the cart, and for Rasheed -- into a sate of paralytic pain, and in which they spew black, toxic blood laden with maggots from any available opening. Presumably, the same thing will happen to Madison unless she does something extremely quickly. Rasheed is behind the creature, demanding that it stops, but the Bloated Man refuses to, given that it'll lead to Madison taking them to where they want to go, all the faster.))

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

A strange, dark liquid began pouring out of everything that qualified as an opening in Logal's skin, staining his flesh and the gray dirt below a sickening black. To my horror, the offending odor intensified as the creature laughed his deep, joyous laugh. My eyes watered up instantly, and I could feel my lunch slamming the eject button in my stomach. I gagged a couple times as I slowly backed away from Rasheed and his smiling cohort.

The grin on his rotting face unnerved me. His lips were curved from ear to ear, revealing a set of jagged, rotting teeth that would make for a fearsome weapon. Logal's eyes shone as he squinted at me. It was then that I noticed that the stench was having an effect on the ghosts near him--save for the ones seated in Rasheed's rickety wooden cart. One by one, the ghosts started hacking up blood and were going into brief seizures as they fell to the ground. The sound of puking and painful screams filled the air, nearly drowning out the obese man's chortling.

The fetid stench was spreading its way through the atmosphere of my carnival. I realized that if I didn't do something quick, then I was doomed to the fate of the ghosts--crumpled up on the ground and oozing massive amounts of blood; which I had now noticed had maggots in it. I felt sick again. What the hell was going on inside Logal that would cause this to happen? Poisons? Enchantments?

I stumbled backwards as I made my way away from the necromancer and his abomination. No matter how far away I got, the atmosphere was choked with whatever it was that he was excreting. My knees buckled as I fell to the ground. Everything was getting blurry. My nerves were starting to feel as if they were on fire. I tried to get up, but stumbled and fell again. My stomach was twisting up in knots. I forced myself to my feet and stumbled backwards until I hit one of the game stands. Twisting my head around, I could see a stack of crates that I could climb up to reach the roof of the hastily constructed wooden building.

Instinctively, I scrambled up the crates and laid down on my back as soon as I reached the relatively safe haven high up. It took me a few seconds to realize that the air was a little bit clearer up here, save for whatever was clinging for dear life to my skin, dress, and hair. As I took a few deep breaths to get some relatively fresh oxygen in my system, three thoughts entered my head. First, I was going to need a serious bath after this; perhaps one with ten bars of soap, three wire brushes, and about two gallons of whatever perfume the monks who put me up to this could get their hands on. Secondly, Logal's pungent expulsions must be heavier than regular air, which would explain why it wasn't as bad up on top of the game stand. Thirdly, I was going to vomit any second now.

The screams from the ghosts began to die down as I rolled over and clawed my way to the back edge of the game stand. No sooner than when I reached it, the remnants of my sandwich found the emergency exit and splashed on the gray dirt twelve feet below. I took a few more deep breaths, wiping excess bile off my black lips with a sleeve--adding to it another reason to visit the cleaners. The fire in my nerves was slowly fading as I crawled back to the front of the stand.

Rasheed's questions formed a single-file line inside my mind. I wearily glared at the scraggly old man as he relentlessly pounded on the laughing monstrosity's fat-covered back. "Let me explain something to you about the Dajas Pagoda, old man." My voice was tainted with my own venom as I continued to shout, my voice raspy with sickness. "It doesn't matter whether you came to fight, talk, or even play a fucking game of cards with the Grandmaster. According to the rules, nobody is allowed to meet with him unless they engage and defeat a Warrior--me, as those cock-sucking monks so decided--and a Master of the Pagoda in combat."

My head was beginning to clear itself, but a little bit of dizziness remained. "I'm sorry if that disappoints you; I think it's quite a fucked up system myself, but there you have it." I coughed for a few seconds before I continued. "Trust me, I would love nothing more but to let you through to the next rankings, but I can't just step aside, you know?"

Physical combat was definitely out of the question. I wouldn't a chance against another one of Ol' Smeller's olfactory assaults, especially in the condition I was currently in. But, I needed something to test the geezer at... Something that constitute a battle of sorts; so I wouldn't get in trouble for not testing Rasheed somehow...

The answer didn't come to me until I realized I was sitting right on top of it. My head perked up and my eyes shone in that dawning moment of comprehension. Of course! Carnival games! This place is packed with things that, if I put the proper spin on, can "teach, train, and test" someone's abilities. The ring toss for dexterity, the air rifle range for accuracy, that "ring the bell" thing over there for strength... Yes, that would be perfect... I highly doubt that a feeble old wretch like him could beat me at those... A devious smile crossed my face.

I called out to him over the groans of the paralyzed ghosts. "Hey, Rasheed--idea. You need to get through to Zerith so he can answer your stupid little questions, and I need something to tell the people who run this place. You said that you're humble and peaceful and all that crap, right? Well, I'd rather not hurt a gentleman such as yourself, so what do you say to a best of five carney game contest?" I'm such a liar. I wouldn't have minded spilling his ancient blood all over the place; I just didn't want to tangle with tubby.

I waited a few seconds, squinting in the bright noontime sun to read his face for any sort of reaction. "If you win, I'll let you by with no questions asked. You lose, and I want you to pay for my dry cleaning bill and an apology from Logal for fucking up my wonderful dress."

[Saeleothesis]

The Necromancer stilled his fists, peering up at the woman with an expression that was little if not calculating. Slowly, and with an air of overstated care -- as though he wanted her to see what he was doing -- the nut-brown old man reached into the breast of his beaten robes, and touched something within. Almost instantly, the behemoth gave a grunt of discomfort, and twisted his melon-sized head around to stare in shock at Rasheed with those ever-glowing eyes. As if a valve had been sealed off, the horrid stink -- that of long-rotten bile and week-old cadavers left out to bake in the sun -- started to drift away...or, at the very least, stopped rising.

The creature opened its great, dripping mouth to speak; to roar the words of some awful, unfathomable curse at the old man, for his complete foolishness...but though smoking spittle sprayed, Logal uttered not a peep. His sausage-thick fingers clawed briefly at his throat, as though to force out even the smallest of words from within, but only the sound of flesh on flesh pervaded the air; nothing more. Composed and sleek once again -- the very figure of but a humble merchant, who would strip you of your money in half of a heartbeat -- the Priest of the King in Yellow smiled his crooked smile, walked his crooked walk, and stepped past the bulk of his mute, raging servant.

'Rasheed! What do you think you're doing? Just another minute and I could have--'

'Shut up. I'm working.'

"That's very gracious of you...Miss...Madison," wheedled the traveler, once again clearly stumbling when confronted with the unfamiliar word, "though I don't suppose that it would make any difference if I had something to...ah...show to your master? As I've said, I am but a humble merchant, and speaker to the dead, and have many strange wonders he may be intrigued and delighted by. Or perhaps I might sell you something, to give to your husband? No? A shame."

"Rasheed," whispered Logal, who had finally found his voice, "you do understand that things are different over here, right? Their grand master could well be a woman, and from the way this one talks, I'd be shocked if she had a husband."

"Don't be silly," muttered the master, "she can't be younger than twenty: of course she has a husband."

Increasing the distance between himself and the horror -- as if that made the slightest difference, given their connection -- the Necromancer removed his hands from inside his clothing, and clasped them together in front of him, earnestly.

"I happily accept...although I must ask that you let me put all of my skills to use, in order to make this more fair. You, you're young and strong and beautiful, while I'm just an old man; I only think it fitting that Logal, and some of my other helpers, could play champion in my stead. In exchange for that, though, I might be willing to let you pick the first game."

He flashed her a million megawatt smile, and for the space of an instant, his eyes flickered beautiful, cunning, and blue.

"How does that sound?"

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

I observed the old man with piqued curiosity as he reached inside his robe. Almost immediately afterwards, Logal was putting on a show that wasn't unlike that of everyone who had suffered through his appalling excretions. The obese creature seemed to be struggling with the simple concept of breathing, his sausage-like fingers clawing as his throat like a madman. A thin smile crossed my face as I watched him suffer: So, it seems that Rasheed has control over him--the thing is nothing more than a different kind of weapon than I'm used to seeing.

"This must be what necromancy is all about," I muttered to myself as I slid off the roof of the stall I was perched on, kicking up a small cloud of loose dust as my feet touched solid earth once more. During my time "volunteering" at the library in town, I remember reading a few things about the dark art, but never imagined that I'd ever see it in action. The concept of reanimating the dead intrigued me; at times I considered taking it up as a hobby when I retire, as opposed to knitting or spoiling the grandchildren like most of the geriatrics do.

Logal seemed to be recovering as Rasheed and I slowly approached each other. I was still feeling a bit sour--my head felt like it was smashed in with a few rocks while a couple people ganged up on me and kicked me in the stomach repeatedly. Regardless, I repressed any feeling synonymous with pain as I walked. Whether it was a physical throw-down or the carny game tournament like I proposed, this was still a battle. I would allow myself to show no weakness to my opponent. Every now and again I coughed--the horrid stench clung like a baby to my self and would occasionally decide to waft up my nose.

The carnival resumed its gay existence around us as if nothing at all had happened--save for the fact that they were a bit more wary about Logal. I listened intently as Rasheed listed a few stipulations before he would agree to the match. He wanted to be able to use all of his skills in our contest. I stole a quick glance at the rotting, overstuffed creature behind him, curling my lip a bit in disgust. Does that mean he's not the only one?

I returned my attention to the old man, my voice exhuming confidence. "That's fine with me. But let me make this perfectly clear: They can't interfere when it's my turn." I didn't wait for him to answer as I began to stroll down the midway, looking for the first game of the contest. Hundreds of ghosts packed the wide path and crowded the game stalls. Every now and then, one of them would walk away with some sort of prize tucked snuggly under an arm. One small boy screamed at the top of his lungs as his older sister snatched the stuffed bear he won out of his reach.

My eyes darted from stand to stand, contemplating which game would give me the easiest win. Anything related to strength was out of the question--if Logal was as strong as his thick frame suggested, then picking the "ring the bell" game would be suicide. Several of the carnies desperately shouted after the three of us as we walked by, hoping to rope us into spending money at their rigged games.

I paused for a brief second, spotting a sign that had BALLOON POP painted in bold, bright letters surrounded by a string of flashing lightbulbs. A test of accuracy... Yeah, I'd like to see what the geezer can pull for this, I thought to myself as I silently approached the stand. The pale figure behind the counter immediately met my gaze, a look of devious joy illuminating his translucent face.

"Why hullo thurr, lass," he greeted me with a thick accent. "Would'ja like t' try your hand at mah game?" His smile widened, revealing that he was missing a couple teeth while the ones left behind were stained with tobacco juice. I cringed lightly at the sight. The ghost extended his hand outward towards the back wall of the booth, which was peppered with balloons of various sizes. "The red ones're worth five points, the yellow ones ten, and the blue ones twenty. As you can see behind meh, how many points yeh get decide which prize yeh win." He stuck a thumb out behind him, pointing out the stuffed animals ranging from the size of my fist to almost half as big as Logal himself. "Five gold for five darts, lassie."

I stared at the back wall for a second. "You know that everything is gray, right?"

Puzzled, the carny followed my gaze. "Everything looks right fine to me," he offered with a shrug.

After rummaging through my satchel, I slammed ten glimmering coins on the hard wooden counter. "A round for me and one for the old guy next to me."

"Why o'course, lass," the ghost said with an eager look in his eyes as he scooped up the money and hastily crammed it into a pouch strapped around his waist. He reached underneath the counter, producing ten darts, neatly placing them on the counter in front of me.

I looked at my opponent out of the corner of one eye. "I hope I don't have to explain this game to you, Rasheed." My thin fingers wrapped around the minuscule shaft of the first dart. It was made of a light wood, with thin wings sticking out of one end painted a darker shade than the body. I focused on the board and its swirls of grays, trying to spot a balloon that was just begging to be popped. There was one darker than the rest; presumably a blue one. I raised the dart in front of me, focusing on that one spot. I thrust my hand forward, sending the shaft spiraling through the air.

Yet, something strange happened. The dart itself hit its mark a little off-center, but seemingly pushed the balloon out of the way before it embedded itself into the cork board behind it. I stood in silence for a brief second, an eyebrow raised in confusion. "What the hell was that," I said to the carny.

He glanced at the wall, his voice filled with the perfect amount of smug and smarm. "I'd say that'd be more akin to bad luck than anything else."

My hand shot out and snatched up another dart. Upon closer inspection, I discovered that the tips were a little on the blunt side. That motherfucker was rigging the game! I eyed the ghost, feeling a wave of anger surge inside me. "Hey, asshole, how about some sharp darts?"

He tilted his head to the side as he picked up a dart, pressing the tip lightly against his finger. "I dinnae what you're talking about, lass. Feels sharp 'nuff fer' me..."

I quickly jammed the tip of my dart diagonally across a free finger. My eye twitched as the blunt tip tore through a few layers of skin, but not deep enough to draw blood. I raised the finger and the dart at the carny for him to inspect. "Does this look like anything close to the definition of sharp to you?" His hollow eyes quickly moved from the clean tip of the dart, to the small cut gracing my finger, and back again.

"R-right sorry, that I am." The notion of crossing a pissed-off woman who willingly stabbed herself probably didn't sit well with him. As he continued to apologize, he bent down underneath the counter, grabbing a new set of darts and placing them in front of me. I leered at him as I slowly picked up one of the dark shafts. Turning my attention back towards the balloon-riddled wall, I focused once more on the small, dark object I previously tried to pop. I took a few seconds to aim before I sent the dart flying. My hand turned slightly, however, and sent the dart towards one of the lighter-shaded ones. The sharp steel tip passed through the thing with a satisfying pop! before it stuck into the wall. Ten points.

"Much better," I said to the ghost with a note of satisfaction. He stood with his pale arms crossed and head hung in shame.

Pop! Thirty points.

Bang! Thirty-five.

Thud! "Shit."

Pop! "Fifty points!" The carny cried out for everyone to hear. "Well done, lassie! Here's your prize!" His ghostly hands offered me a big, stuffed cat with oversized eyes. It briefly reminded me of my fight with Monica the cat girl back in Radasanth. I shrugged lightly as I cradled it underneath an arm. Eh, why the hell not. I won it, didn't I?

I stepped off to the side, leaning up against one of the corners of the stall. An eager smile curled my black lips. "Well, Rasheed, you're up."

[Saeleothesis]

Biting at his lower lip contemplatively, Rasheed brushed past a pair of fair-day ghosts, and pressed the front of his robes against the rim of the stall. Coarse fabric dragged loudly against the beaten wood, catching and snagging in any number of places as he shifted uncertainly from one leg to the other. The stallmaster, who seemed to have decided that the old man was probably as crazy as the woman he was with, slid a row of darts down the line, and smiled broadly and -- this was the important part -- inoffensively.

"Don'tcha know how to play, sir? If you'd like, I could explain--" he began, but was cut off by an idle wave of the gentleman's wrinkled hand. Uncertain as to what to do, the man simply tapered off into uncomfortable silence.

"I'm fine...I know very well how to play the game. I'm simply thinking; there isn't any rule against that, is there?"

"Well," replied the spec tar, speaking carefully, "I don't suppose there is, sir, only it's that you've got people in line behind you, and I depend on this stall to provide for me and my family. Why, if I don't make enough, my poor sick lil' daughter, Annabelle-Lee, might not make it! She's at death's door, she is, and--"

"Will you please stop trying to swindle me," the Necromancer asked absentmindedly, twisting his beard, "I told you, I'm trying to think. Besides, there isn't a line...all of those ghosts are with me."

He stopped completely, as though actually hearing what he'd just said. The edges of his cracked lips perked up in a self-satisfied grin, which only grew bigger with each passing second..

"Oh. Of course," he murmured, with the air of one who has just seen the solution to a difficult problem or puzzle. Shaking his head from side to side, as though he just couldn't believe it had taken him so long to notice it, he motioned over his shoulder for one of his six faded followers to come forward. The spirit, a bald, shabby-looking Asian in his late thirties, moved away from the rest of the shimmering group, gaining further definition and sharpness about his person as purpose filled him. Bending his knees to come even with his master's face, the ghost of Silas Monroe listened to the quiet question that rode on hot, ticklish breath through the curves of his ear, and straightened again, nodding.

"Of course. I would be happy to show you where they are," he said, smiling brightly, and slid one of his hands around the Necromancer's slender wrist. Bringing the leathery hand up high; with one finger pointed straight, he guided it slowly across the run of the backboard, pausing now and then to push it incrementally forward toward one balloon or another. After this arc had been finished, he carried it through another; this time, indicating a second set of monochrome spheres.

"The first set is blue. The second set is yellow. All the rest are red. Is there anything else that I can do?"

"No, thank you," replied Rasheed warmly, patting Silas on the shoulder, "you've been very kind. But if you could maybe just stand by, in case I get confused? You know how it can be..."

"Oh, of course! I'm sorry," added the oriental spirit eagerly, hovering behind and beside the older man as though a living man acting the part of a ghost, rather than a ghost acting the part of a living man. Still, for all his care about the situation of Rasheed, he found the time to shoot the stallmaster a look as black and vile as Logal's rotten blood.

"It's sick that someone would actually try to con a poor, old colorblind man in a game like this. It's just sick," he muttered, his voice swearing murder, if it went much further.

"How true," lamented the Necromancer, and let the first dart fly.

Pop : twenty.

"Of course," he continued, throwing again, "a man my age--"

Pop : thirty-five.

"Has to take whatever he can get--"

Thud.

"When -- damn -- it's given to him--"

Thud

"No matter how cruel life might be."

Pop: fifty.

"After all," he finished, turning to stand profile with Madison, "we're not nearly so young and strong as you are. We've got to rely on what brains the good Lord has left us with, so that we can keep up."

He looked at the board, eyes flicking across the punctured sacs from both sides.

"A tie? My word."

'Did you do that on purpose, Rasheed? I could have sworn you were a better shot than that.'

'Maybe, maybe not. My wrist isn't what it used to be, you know.'

'Oh bullshit.'

Leaning heavily on the side of the stall, as if determined to show off the ravages of his old age, the Necromancer blew a puff of air through his teeth, and raised his eyebrows at the assassin, still smiling. With the same hand he'd used to throw the darts, he stroked a plush prize cat identical to that of his opponent.

"I don't suppose you'd happen to have any suggestions? We can always go again, if you like."

((You know, this isn't actually the way I originally planned it, but it could turn out to be more fun in the end. We'll just have to see.))

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

I stood off to the side, my mind and arms both crossed, as Rasheed worked his magic. One of the several ghosts took definite shape, his foreign structure given a clearer definition as he approached the necromancer. Taking the old man's wrinkly hand in his own, I watched on as the figure guided Rasheed's craggily finger to various points on the balloon-riddled back wall. It didn't take an alchemist to figure out what was going on here. My fists clenched as they were tucked underneath my arms, yearning to scream "cheater!" as they drove themselves into his face.

Alas, that's what I get for leveling the playing field, so to speak.

The old man went off on some irrelevant tangent--I couldn't say about what, since I wasn't paying attention--as he fired off the darts, one by one. I leaned in closer to see that, despite missing twice, the ghost's advice was true and Rasheed tied my own score. With a smug grin on his face and a dark hand stroking a stuffed animal identical to mine, he commented on the tie with an air of whimsy, as if he was just fucking around with me. Just one punch, that's all I want...

Narrowing my eyes at my opponent, I attempted to belay my violent urges. This was supposed to be a friendly little competition, an alternative to tangling with Logal. Once I was calm again, I thought for a moment about what to do--attempt a tie-breaker round, or just move on to the next game? After a few seconds, an idea crept into my head. A thin, grim smile found its way onto my face as I mulled it over.

He knows which balloons are which, but there's no way he could score so high if he had to throw multiple darts at once...

A wave of confidence passed through me as I dug through my satchel for a few more coins. I slammed the gold onto the counter. "Six darts, please."

The apparition behind the counter cocked his head to the side. "I beg your pardon?"

I pointed at the coins. "Your game is one gold coin per dart, right?"

He flipped his eyes upwards, destroying his brain with mathematical calculations. "Why yes, it is."

"Then give me six darts."

The translucent carny shook his head. "But ma'am, the rules state that one round is five coins, I can't just take--"

I leaned in over the counter, close enough to have bitten his nose off had he been living. "I said give me the fucking darts, unless you want me telling everyone that you rig this pitiful excuse for a game. You'd be run out of here, broken and jobless, without any way to take care of your precious little daughter. And what would--what was her name... Annabelle-Lee? What would she think about her father who couldn't support her in her final days?"

The carny glared at me for a few seconds before begrudgingly grabbing the gold off of the wooden counter. Grumbling to himself, he went to reach for a set of darts underneath the counter when I stopped him.

"No. The ones we just threw, please." The man did has he was told, yanking the darts one by one off the cork board that lined the back wall. He slammed the six shafts onto the counter with no small amount of frustration.

"Thank you," I said venomously as I picked up three of the darts and turned towards Rasheed. "Alright, here's the drill. You get three darts, and you have to throw them all at once." While the ghost may have pointed out the layout of the various colored balloons, the yellows and blues were separated enough where it was damn near impossible for him to hit anything and score big. "For some reason, if we tie again then we'll just move onto the next game--your pick."

I nearly caught myself before I picked up my darts. "Oh, and you have to throw them, just in case you were getting any bright ideas about having one of those ghosts play for you."

I turned towards the inside of the stall, squinting hard at the balloons to try and pick out a perfect spot to aim for. The yellow targets were easy to pick out, seeing as they were a lighter hue of gray than everything else. The red and blue ones, on the other hand... The only thing I could do was pray that an errant dart slammed into a blue balloon.

Placing a dart between each of my fingers, I raised my clenched fist into the air beside my head. I focused for a few more seconds, singling out the presumably darker shade denoting blue balloon. Like a flash, my arm swept to the side and I released the darts in a wave towards the unsuspecting targets.

Pop! Pop! Whack!

"Huh. Twenty-five points." I smiled with a touch of satisfaction as the carny mumbled my score out loud.

"Your turn, Rasheed," I said with a hint of sarcastic brightness as I childishly hugged my stuffed prize.

[Saeleothesis]

Even with some seven feet separating them, and with his own frame outranking Rasheed's by a good two feet and several hundred pounds, Logal couldn't help but step back at the explosion. It was a quiet thing, and not a single muscle on the old man's face twitched away from his serene smile, but when looked at through a finer mesh than that of mere reflected light, the world fairly well boiled around the Necromancer, with bubbles of reality floating along the miasmic riptide, until they burst with a sound not unlike the slow cooking of many skinless bodies laid out in the sun. On different planes -- different worlds with different skies, where the words that you said carried impossible weight -- the Yellow Sign bathed the strange, colorless fair in its light, shearing through the barriers of life and death like they were so much rice paper; everything was beautiful; everything was golden.

With a steady hand -- though the world struck and twisted around it, moving like the heartbeat of crude oil rapids -- Rasheed pulled his beaten robes up to his elbows, and picked up the darts. With the air of a jeweler at work, he held the wooden bolts up to his face for inspection, taking in each and every detail of the much-abused bolts, from the gleaming tips to the red paint smudge the Stallmaster had used for his marker. The wind blew through the pavilion, still bearing traces of the horror's toxin, and whipping the strands of his black turban into a frenzy; although they battered against his nose and brow, he didn't so much as blink. If not for his breath, he might have seemed a statue built out of skin and bone and sinew, with tarnished copper ligaments and gray old horse-hair to cover his chin.

"And here I thought," he finally said, with the air of selecting each word carefully, "that we'd already agreed on the rules for this challenge. Are you trying to tell me that, in fact, we have not, 'Miss' Madison? Are you trying to...haggle, as it were?"

On the stressed word, his sunken hawk-eyes flared up that queer, baleful blue once again, the color made all the more insistent by the lack of nigh-on any others around. Perhaps she could taste the danger in the air, then; the blurred spirits stepped forward in perfect union, their assorted heights and lengths and ghastly limbs turning Rasheed, when viewed from the front, into the very image of a hellish, heathen idol. Their half-formed hands stroked at his beard, danced across his dirty robes, and even passed through the very darts which he still so carefully inspected.

"You told me that I could use anything at my disposal, in lieu of combat. I'm no fighter, and you could see plainly that I didn't wish for blood...but if you want to try to cheat me, it will end in blood; yours, I assure you, and all over the place. Should I stop holding Logal's chains, 'Miss' Madison? Should I let him stampede or berserk, as I know he wants to? It would be a shame to see that face melt away to bone...but I'm very firm about fair play."

He smiled at her, but it might as well have been a snarl.

"Don't think to cheat me. Don't think to betray me. Because I will see you regret it, if you do, even if I have to do it from beyond the grave."

And, without so much as turning his head, he hurled the bolts -- two in one hand, one in the other -- through the stallmaster's head, popping two five-point balloons in almost perfect sequence. Casting off with a slight limp, he motioned over his shoulder for the girl to follow, leaving her to drift along at the back of his followers. The fair streamed past in a monochrome, timeless river, parting to allow the procession passage, and quickly sealing up behind them. The reason for this, at least, was clear enough; the Bloated One walked almost side-by-side with his master, casting his molten eyes about as though looking for the plumpest, weakest member of the herd to fall upon, tooth and nail.

Five-odd minutes later, the party stopped -- albeit in a piecemeal fashion -- at a set of hay bales which had been painted with bullseyes. The sign overhead, however, proclaimed that it was for knife throwing, rather than archery; the gamemaster looked just as full of guile and snake-oil as the last one, only aged five years.

"Here. We'll play this, if you don't object to it," announced the Necromancer, fishing in the pocket of his robe as he did so, and producing a hand full of pale discs for the owner. The man took these with a nod and a wink, and produced two sets of five throwing daggers, offering them to first the old man, and then the assassin.

"Targets are at fifty paces," he informed them, waving one grubby hand toward the marks, "and you each get five throws. The center's five points, and you go down a point for each ring away from the center you are. A miss, or a no-ring zone means no points. If you--"

"No," interrupted Rasheed, shaking his head.

"No," asked the gamemaster, perplexed.

"No. Fifty is too short. Make it a hundred."

The carnival worker shot him a strange look, but went off to do as bidden. Doubtless, Logal's close presence made the idea of actually objecting to something so minor seem fairly unimportant.

"I just want to make sure," explained Rasheed, smiling darkly, "that you can be honest, when you tell your masters about challenging me. Fifty paces is nothing; I'm sure a strong girl like you could do it in her sleep. Besides, it gives me a chance to bring your opponent out."

Closing his flickering eyes, the Necromancer pressed a wrinkled hand against his heart, sucking in air through his chipped and crooked teeth until it seemed that he surely was about to collapse. Rigid as a scarecrow on the cross, he let it out, shaping it into an interconnected string of short, bleak words, spoken in his native tongue. The call was answered in a ghostly, black mirror as, behind him, a darkness-man stepped out of Rasheed's trailing shadow, white eyes flashing amidst the wispy mess like distant, terrible stars. Scraps of discarded newspaper and other offal picked up in a dust devil, sucking in to coat the shade's body with what was, for lack of a better word, a 'skin' of whatever was at hand; as layer upon layer plastered itself across his body -- for, indeed, it was male -- the creature gained more definition, and became even less human. Bolts of cloth, whisked away from some distant stall, wrapped around patched wooden beams and sticks to make up his limbs, and a bent fold of velvet, still thick with tailor's pins, dropped down atop his crown to serve as a hat.

Shifting forward, the geisthora offered a bow of sorts to Madison, peering up at her with those unnatural eyes, and greeting her in a voice like the desert wind across bones long-bleached and long-forgotten.

"My champion," the old man said simply, and handed the spirit his knives. Those who had seen the strange transformation were long-fled, and the gamemaster had been too busy with his work to catch sight of the Ghost of Hora emerging. He almost looked normal, albeit strangely dressed, unless one were to look closely at the eyes; the white-on-endless-black of those not-quite-perfect circles gave him away for what he truly was. Turning away from Madison much in the fashion of his master only minutes before, the shade took his place at the throwing line, and, once he had the girl's company, held out the blades in one hand, staring over one shoulder at the Necromancer with as perplexed a look as he could generate.

"No, not in her. Put them all in the middle," replied Rasheed, nodding.

Answering with a laugh like the distant crowing of vultures, the shadow-man shifted his grip on the blunt blades, and with them all in one hand, stretched his right arm outward. The silk that made up his clothing rustled to cover the expanse as though some great, beautiful serpent, rustling with the sound of dry leaves as the proportions grew from strange, to freakish, to nearly impossible.

With one splintered wooden finger, the rubbish man flicked the painted hay at the middle of the target playfully, letting off another of those unnatural laughs. And then, in quick order, and with every sign of enjoyment, he slammed the blunted knives into the eye of the target, one on top of the other, splitting the wooden bases further and further as each weapon claimed the life of the one below it. In the space of time it would have taken to just throw two, the creature had rammed his whole stock into perfect place.

"Twenty-five points. My word," was all that Rasheed said, aside from adding:

"I wish you luck, 'Miss' Madison. You'll need it."

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

My added stipulation for the sudden death round really didn't sit well with the necromancer. I could feel the anger ooze out of him in an almost physical wave reminiscent of Logal's horrendous odor. I crossed my arms and stood defiant as several of the ghosts under his control swarmed around his body, and remained silent until he was done running his mouth at me with a tounge tainted with a different kind of poison that rivaled anything his obese pet could've produced.

"Life is full of uncertainties and disappointments," I quipped at him, unfazed by his threats. If you haven't learned that by now, old man, then there's no hope for you." A smug smile crossed my lips, a drastic counterpoint to the thinly-veiled hatred emanating from him.

Rasheed's hands were clenched tightly around the three darts, his knuckles turning with with rage. Quicker than I would've expected out of a rickety old man such as himself, he hurled the darts at the balloons--the carny yelped in surprise as they traveled through his head on their way to popping two balloons. I shook my head at him, clicking my tounge in mocking disapproval. "Such haste, Rasheed... Maybe if you actually tried, you might have beaten me.

Whether or not he actually heard me was a inconsequential: He was already walking towards his pick for the next game.


***

I watched in awe as, a short while after we arrived at the next game and Rasheed had an exchange with the carny who ran this one, the necromancer worked his magic. As he muttered some sort of summoning incantation through strained (and disgusting) teeth, a figure rose from his shadow. My dress and hair flailed wildly as the wind picked up, sucking all sorts of garbage and debris towards the shadowy figure that covered him and formed some sort of makeshift skin. The ghosts that were around us screamed in terror, fleeing every which way in a scattered, chaotic mob. Little bits of paper and sticks pelted my backside as my opponent's latest abomination continued to take shape.

Once the process was finished, the garbage creature looked at me and offered a graceful bow that suggested that it had a touch more class than its master possessed. I nodded my own head in return, brushing my disturbed raven-black bangs back into their proper position and straightening my vlince dress out. I found the thing's eyes to be strangely captivating; piercing white dots set in a pitch black, like two lonely stars in the middle of the nighttime sky.

I was wondering what he meant by ' my opponent', I thought grimly to myself as Rasheed gave the animated pile of debris its orders. "Interesting trick," I calmly said to my opponent. "But a hundred paces is a hundred--"

I froze in mid-sentence as the creature let out an unearthly cackle and stretched his arm toward the painted bale of hay that served as the knives' final resting place. Playfully, it flicked at the hay before systematically inserting each knife into one another at the dead center of the target.

No, I wanted to scream. A tsunami of rage was flooding my mind, turning my face red and my knuckles white. I could feel my fingernails breaking through the skin of my palms as my balled fists trembled. My eyes shot a set of knives all their own at Rasheed as I slowly picked up the five daggers in front of me. Tightly clenching the wooden hilt, I twisted the tip of the blunt blade into the tip of a finger.

"You know," I remarked venomously, trying harder and harder to draw blood from my fingertip, "the temptation is great to misuse these things after that stunt you just pulled. This blade may be worthless, but I promise you that my own personal toys are in great shape and are always itching to come out and play." I glared at the decrepit old man, who wore a look of smug satisfaction in light of "his" perfect score.

Inching closer to his face, I took a more menacing tone. "Rest assured that within a second, I could slit your rotten throat and be out of here, leaving your corpse's clean-up to your friends here.

I backed away slowly, clutching the blade of the dagger with two fingers. My nerves were still shot from witnessing the garbage man's contortion act. I dug through my satchel, producing a small vial of blood. Wasting no time, I popped the cork stopper off and drained the contents onto my tounge. The thick metallic taste of the liquid felt good--a small wave of euphoria passed through me, and I could focus clearly once more. The bale of hay stood a good distance away, taunting me with its presence. The carny was on his way back from the bale, cradling the splintered remains of the first five daggers in his translucent arms.

I raised the dagger up eye level with the dead center of the painted target, then flicked it with as much force as I could muster. One hundred paces was still a daunting distance, especially for me. The dull blade twisted and turned in mid air, before coming to a sudden stop in the center of the bail. I smiled, a touch surprised with myself. "Not a bad start," I commented before picking up the second dagger.

The follow-up was a bit more graceful as it careened through the air. However, instead of embedding itself into the middle like the first one, it glanced off the handle and was redirected to the three point area. "What the fuck!" I shouted in utter disappointment as I sulked away from the stand.

The ghostly carny called after me. "Hey, missy, aren't you going to finish the game?"

I waved a gloved hand at him dismissively. "I already lost. What'd be the point?"

I could only imagine what was going through Rasheed's wrinkly mind at that moment. Maybe I should've killed him when I had the chance--the gods know that I've had plenty ever since he showed up in my carnival.


***

I spent the next few minutes searching the midway for the next challenge. Many games caught my eye: The ring toss, the air rifle range, the bell and hammer game (suicide as long as Logal was around), the basketball contest, that thing where you guess someone's weight... With each glance, I questioned inwardly what kind of tricks Rasheed could pull to win at each one, taking into consideration what I could do to mess him up in response. Summoning the stretchy garbage thing pushed me over the edge; I had to win from here on out. I haven't lost a fight yet in the pagoda, I wasn't going to let the shame of losing over defeat by fucking carny games hang over my head like an rotting albatross.

I could only imagine what the monks would say to that. "There goes Madison Freebird; the bitch who lost her Warrior status to an old man at Whack-A-Mole."

Stand after stand beckoned for my attention, until one in particular stuck out. It was a simple thing, a plain pale gray wall with two flimsy-looking twenty foot long rope ladders coming down at a thirty degree angle. Perfect, I thought to myself as a devious smile crossed my lips.

"Here, we'll play this game." We drew closer to the rope ladder wall. My victory was almost certain here. I was far more nimble than the foreign bag of bones; scaling the ladder would pose no problem for me. I would greatly enjoy watching him fumble around, getting caught up in the ropes as the ladder twisted and inverted itself with each of his movements. As I dug through my satchel for a couple of spare coins, the carny opened her mouth and began squeaking out a introduction to the game. I held up my hand, interrupting her. "Can it. Rasheed, here's the deal. We'll both start at the same time. Whoever gets to the top of the ladder and rings the bell first wins. Deal?"

I flicked the two gleaming coins at the girl, her innocent eyes following the metal disks like hawks. She caught the money with no problem and quietly placed it in a small tin box she had set on a nearby table. I bent over, undoing my heeled boots and setting them near the foot of the ladder.

"Ready when you are." My eyes glanced upwards, focusing on the bell that sat tauntingly at the top of the rope. I can't possibly lose this one.

[Cyrus the virus]

I must say, I’m very disappointed this ended the way it did. The early posts were incredible. As much as I like the novelty of a series of carnival games, though, I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t find them listless after a while. I attribute this to the fact that at the beginning, all I could think about was how great the writing would be in a fight between you two.

My comments won’t be quite as in depth or common as I expected, since this didn’t finish. Know that my interest dwindled during the last few posts, though I sensed the mounting tension.

BlackAndBlueEyes wins.

BlackAndBlueEyes

Story
Continuity – 7/10
Setting – 8/10 Great. I love this arena and the way you describe it.
Pacing – 6/10

Character
Dialogue – 9/10 Really impressive.
Action – 7/10
Persona – 8/10 Consistent and good.

Writing Style
Technique – 6/10 I didn’t see a tremendous amount of technique here, not that I mind at all. You’re a good writer.
Mechanics – 8/10 Few flaws, and those were basic things you probably just looked over.
Clarity - 10/10 I knew what was going on all the time and understood everything you wrote, I don’t see how I could not give you a ten.

Miscellaneous
Wild Card - 8/10 I usually hate judging battles, thanks for making it unlame!

Total: 77


Saeleothesis

Story
Continuity – 7/10
Setting – 8/10 Great descriptions.
Pacing – 7/10

Character
Dialogue – 9/10 Quite fantastic.
Action – 7/10
Persona – 9/10 Your characters are great, very individualistic and different from one another.

Writing Style
Technique – 7/10
Mechanics – 7/10 A few too many commas in some places, some missing words, but very good in just about every other way.
Clarity - 9/10 Really great.

Miscellaneous
Wild Card - 2/10 Low Wild Card score due to not continuing the thread. I understand you’re busy, just make sure to write some more in the future to make it up to me.

Total: 72

Black gets 940 EXP and 150 gold.
Sae gets 225 EXP.

[Karuka]

EXP/GP added! BlackandBlueEyes levels up!