Happy Hour Hostility (open to one)

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

Closed to Duffy. All bunnies approved.

I had asked to be taken to a dive; a wretched hole where you will find naught but the best examples of the worst of society. To the Citadel monks' credit, they didn't disappoint.

The sign, hanging off of a single iron hinge over the front door, read: The Root Canal. Uninspired, certainly. But given some of the shouting and screaming that leaked through the stone and wood walls of the tavern, it sounded like there were several of those procedures going on inside.

A single war cry rose above the din inside as I heard a window crack. The broken, bloodied body of one of the patrons was sent careening through it, sending thin splinters of wood and shattered glass scattering across the hard-packed dirt road. The icebox of a man in a tattered leather tunic ended his flight directly in my path. A half-conscious moan escaped his lips as I stepped over him, my eyes firmly set on the tavern's front door.

As my hand reached out for the rusted handle, the door burst open. A tall, very imposing man stood in my way. He practically filled the doorway, glaring at me through yellowed eyes set deep within a dark, pockmarked face. A thin line opened somewhere in his massive black beard, and he addressed me (rather shockingly, I might add) in a gentle manner, one you'd expect from the nobility in childrens' tales. "Welcome to The Root Canal, ma'am. Your weapons, please."

I stuck out a thumb at the rag doll lying in the road behind me. "From the looks of things around here, I might need them."

"Him?" The doorman looked over my shoulder. "That wastrel didn't pay his tab. We prefer gold around here, but the barkeep won't shy away from a blood payment if the situation calls for it."

I weighed my options, hypothesizing that the man in front of me was the one who ejected the other. "Fair enough," I replied as I thew open my cloak and undid the belts that holstered my twin delyn daggers and six throwing knives. The doorman dug a key out of his pocket and turned to his left, where a locked closet stood. A quick turn of the key opened the doors, revealing several racks and peg hooks. Taking my weapons from me, he neatly set the holsters on an open peg.

"Arms out, ma'am," he said, and I complied. He gave me a quick pat down, thankfully paying no mind to the metal cables that I always kept coiled around my upper arms. However, he did turn up my butterfly knife in his search, which he removed from my back pocket with complete disregard for my personal space. He narrowed his eyebrows at me and shook the knife at me a couple times, like a parent would wag a finger at its child whilst scolding him. He slid that into an open loophole in one of my belts before shutting and locking the closet once more.

With a nod from the doorman, I stepped into The Root Canal. As far as taverns go, it bore a similar appearance to those you'd find in towns like Underwood. Small, but not cramped. Heavy oaken tables that were scarred with time and abuse scattered in no particular pattern across the floor. Half-drunk patrons filled a good portion of the chairs, talking joyously to one another about the day's adventures on the farm or at the mill. The barman, dressed in a clean apron and sporting an impressive mustache, met my gaze for a brief second as he polished up a clear glass mug with a clean dishrag. I walked up to the bar and ordered a Bloody Mary, which he whipped together with the precision of a master alchemist. The Thayne bless the monks and the magic they work in the Citadel.

I took a satisfying sip of the drink before finding myself a dark corner to wait in. I figured that a woman, dressed in a pitch-black cloak with her hood pulled over her head, sitting in the farthest corner of the tavern, with no other companions attending her... That would be enough of a tell for the hapless victim that the Citadel would send to me.

I took another sip of my drink as I kept an eye on the tavern door, waiting for my opponent to show.

[Duffy]

Duffy needed a drink, and he needed it now.

Under any other set of circumstances, the bard would have gone with the flow and found the nearest bottle to cork. In the Citadel of Radasanth, however, the leading man of the Tantalum Troupe of Scara Brae knew better than to be so hasty.

The boisterous atmosphere of the illusory tavern lifted his spirits just as much as a few double bourbon might, and in the swell of the vibrancy, he looked at each of the patrons in turn. As his gaze danced from lack lustre business man to crumpet dressed as cake, he could not help but arrive at the conclusion that he was very much in someone else’s sick fantasy.

“I guess it is to be expected,” he chided his own thoughts, regretting any notion of thinking this encounter to be normal. “Oh well,” he swivelled on his rickety bar stool and slammed his clenched fists onto the blood stained, sick marked, and dagger mottled work top.

In the Root Canal, this was apparently the sign that a patron wanted a drink. The bars keep approached the bard with a whistle and a smile. He polished a tankard, clichés clogging his arteries as if they were his lifeblood.

“What’ll it be guv’nor?” his accent was heavily leaning towards Salvar, but this stood in stark contrast to the Radasanth architecture. Duffy could not help but scoff and chuckle, before he composed himself and gave the man a stern, but thankful smile.

“Double bourbon, please, a sort of fiery shot of goodness,” he pointed at a bottle on the back of the liquor wall. It was a brand he recognised, and even though it would taste bland, false, and without body, he decided to draw on convenient familiarities to keep him level in a strange world.

The barkeep nodded, and turned without a sound to attend to the order. Duffy watched the muscular native toss a glass with dextrous hands, tuck it into the shot measure, and click it twice to fill up the cut crystal with the amber nectar. Before the bard could calculate the time it took to prepare, the glass was on the bar, the liquid within rocking back and forth, and an expectant smile levied a tax on Duffy’s coin purse.

“I…” he mouthed, shaking his head. “Thanks,” he rummaged in his baggy trouser pockets for a silver coin, which apparently materialised when he crossed the sandy boundary between foyer and arena dome, and set it into the thick, muscular palm of the bar tender. Before he could pick up the glass, the bar keep moved up the western curve of the tavern’s strange bar and began to discuss the merits of incest with a rather drunk individual with less than moral intentions.

“Why did I agree to do this…” he mumbled, flicking his black, flaxen hair back over his flapping ears before he scooped up the glass and gave his body something to work with.

The sound of chatter, argument, and glasses clashing together in a chorus of toasts accompanied Duffy’s musing for several sombre minutes. Without his weapons, which were taken at the door, the bard was struggling to find a reason to stay in the tavern. By all means, he could have secreted something in with him, lord knows he had baggy enough trousers to fit a small armoury in each leg, but that did not seem right.

“Mind,” he glanced over his shoulder, and picked out one or two scrupulous individuals he assumed did not have any concept of right or wrong. “I do not think that would matter, much.”

In the left corner, there were a trio a thief like individuals. Duffy was not sure how he knew, but he knew. In the right, a lone woman, clad in black, mystery, and madness sat with a drink. Duffy turned back to pick out the names of the liquors on the opposite side of the bar. He sipped from his glass.

“Wait…”

He glanced neurotically over his shoulder again, then back at the bottles.

“Oh…” he mouthed.

The black cloak, silence, and the suspiciously normal behaviour marked the woman out as, for want of a better word, the women he was looking for. He felt very tense all of a sudden. He set his glass down, sighed, and then slipped from his stool. The bars keep, ever tentative to his duties nodded to the departing customer before he continued his exchange.

“Okay…you came here for a reason, Duffy, get on with it…” he shook his shoulders, clicked his spine into life, and then strode over to the secluded table whilst trying to look like he meant business.

The bard wore light brown slacks, a tight fitting, short sleeved shirt, and various bangles and leather bracers about each of his wrists. His hair, messy, black, and shiny in the chandelier’s lack lustre light declared his relative cleanliness in a crowd of less than spotless individuals. His boots were heavy lined leather, with thick soles, well tied laces, and silver studs along each outside heel. The cane in his left hand and the battered old military overcoat added to the juxtaposition between goof and gentleman.

“Look, love,” he snapped, shrugging and jiving and doing strange, erratic things with his lithe body as he made a terrible effort to make an impression, “you clearly want me.”

The woman looked up, blinked, and turned back to her drink.

“We’re here for a simple, unaltered, and violent reason, right?” he twiddled his thumbs, smacked his lips, and set his mind at the task at hand. His accent was Scara Braen, clearly, unmistakably, and sticking out like a sore thumb. Unarmed, uncertain, and slowly becoming drunk, Duff tried to look imposing, without his usual mobile menagerie of blades, flamethrowers, and pig stickers.

It was fortunate for the bard that he was such a good actor, because behind his cold, cruel, non-chalant façade, he was fucking petrified.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

What a curious specimen.

This man who stood before me--with his shiny black bedhead hair, the wardrobe of an adventure novel's peripheral character, funny accent, and abrasive body language--clearly had no idea what he was doing, or what he was trying to get himself into. I didn't expect him to; he must be one of the innumerable creations of the Citadel monks. Perhaps they were having a bit of trouble finding an opponent for me this afternoon, and created a little diversion to ease the boredom of waiting for someone to break a few chairs and bottles over. I am, after all, known to be quite the miserable wretch. Why not reach in from the depths of reality to give a little push to one of the patrons of this little imaginary bar? Let's see what Madison Freebird does when approached by someone quick with a suggestive line here, a double-entendre there? Sure would beat getting stomped by Bob at cards again...

I decided to oblige the monks in their quest for a giggle. After taking a calculated sip from my Bloody Mary, I locked eyes with the guy who stood before me. "I'm all for simple, unadulterated, violent things. But..." I briefly looked him up and down, making sure to show mock disapproval--which, to be honest, it didn't take much effort--before I continued. "Frankly, I'd probably break you in half."

I set down my glass on the scarred oak table before resting my arms on my legs. Leaning forward, I lowered my voice slightly. "I've done things to Dajas Pagoda warriors that brought them to their knees in tears. I'm capable of such acts of depraved cruelty that Nicolette Mayberry herself would hesitate to write them into one of her dreadful penny pornos."

The generic-looking young man flinched slightly, but did not walk away. I gave him a disinterested shrug before taking the conversation down a different path. "Of course, I could be wrong; and you're not here before me with the hope to get a little romance in your hay sack tonight. Perhaps..." I took a quick look around the tavern, searching for a group of snickering twenty-somethings who may have goaded this poor kid into trying to ruffle my feathers. "Perhaps you're looking for a fight. Hoping to score a few coins for breaking my jaw and a couple ribs."

I paused decisively, searching the boy's eyes for any sort of answers. I got none. "What is it, get in with the wrong crowd? Someone holding your little sister hostage? Lose a bit too much in Fallien Hold 'Em? Break your pa's cow fence?"

A tense silence filled the space between us, which managed to unnerve me. The farmboy stood his ground, his stickly arms still defiantly crossed. It was almost comical, really. But, I already had my fun--that, and I was never really good with scathing wit to begin with. I waved a hand at him dismissively. "I am here for a fight; just not with the likes of you. Go on, shoo."

[Duffy]

There would have once been a point in Duffy’s life where that sort of dismissal would have offended him greatly. After living with Ruby Winchester for the better part of five hundred years, however, he was more than used to being casually removed with a wave of an indignant hand. Instead of leaving, as instructed, he simply rested his hand on his hip. He leant to the right onto his cane, and cocked his head with an assured looking smile on his pretty little face.

“I think that you will find madam that I am very much here to fight. I wager I can smash your repugnant face down hard into that piss and blood stained table long before you can consider me a threat.” His words were spoken with a soft elegance, which concealed just enough of malice to drive his point home. Several patrons of the illusory bar set their tankards down onto similar body fluid covered surfaces and turned their attentions to the pair.

The bard had found the two things in life that set him free; conflict, and an audience. In the Citadel, it was the one place where they would always cheer for him. No tomatoes were on hand to be thrown, no rotten turnips, carrots, and certainly, no manure tossed readily onto their artisan stage. Here, he would be adored, and in the moment of their confrontation reaching its inevitable peak, they would be the leading man and leading lady of the arena.

“Unless of course you would rather I allowed you to mount a feeble defence before I break your nose?” Duffy spat.

Something in the dapper gentleman’s mind snapped. It was akin to a sudden metamorphosis, an exegesis of character, and a re-arrangement of morals. He was never usually the sort to resort to such petty insults, veiled threats, and conceited aggression; the woman just had that sort of face, manner, and look about her. Of course, given his physical condition, it had yet to cross Duffy’s mind just how he was going to manage the aforementioned slamming of face, but he would improvise his way to a successful delivery, or so he hoped.

He cleared his throat, in anticipation of needing to sing on the spur of the moment, and whilst she formulated a response, he stitched together the spell song he would require to bring a blade to his defence.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

Oh, an insulting remark about my looks. How original. How utterly adorable. My... less than attractive physical appearance has garnered its fair share of comments in the past. "Repugnant" certainly wasn't the worst. Clearly, this boy was trying to irritate me; trying desperately to get me to knock him flat on his ass. Part of me wanted to give him a pat on the head and a cookie for trying.

However, a growing part of me started to believe that he truly was my opponent for this battle. I had been at The Root Canal for the better part of, what, ten minutes now? The monks who run the show are usually quicker than that to summon an adversary for those who step foot or claw into their magically-constructed battle rooms. A quick glance around the busy tavern showed that all eyes were on us. The patrons had set down their drinks, and the man behind the bar leaned on the smooth wooden surface to see what would happen next between me and the kid. I know how this shit works--the monks generally like to fashion spectators zone in on the two real-world combatants duke it out for bragging rights, much like moths around flame.

But if that were true, and this guy was the one I was slated to fight, I was insulted. Has it been so long since the last time I shed blood in these halls that the monks of the Citadel saw fit to put me in the little leagues with common ruffians? I made a mental note to have words with the monk who hooked me up with this fight.

As the punk was yammering on, making threats about breaking my face against the table and assuming that any defense I put up would be utterly worthless, I imagined no less than fifteen ways to catch him off-guard with a surprise attack, six of which would've ended with him crying like a bitch and instantly forfeiting the battle. I was tempted to use the wire wrapped around my upper arms--perhaps I could sneak a length of delyn cable under the table and wrap it around his legs at the knees, pulling tightly and forcing him to lose his balance. Or perhaps simply command it to circle his scrawny neck, cutting off his air supply as I pulled down to give him a taste of his own medicine and smash his face hard into the table.

All tempting options, to be sure. But with all eyes on us, not to mention the venue of this soon-to-be-one-sided fight, something a bit more theatrical was in order. Something more befitting of a tavern brawl.

I calmly stood up, undoing the strings that kept my black sifan cloak closed around my neck. I casually took it off, revealing my drakescale corset underneath, the scales shimmering between shades of blue and purple by the light of the candelabra overhead. The scale fit snugly over a black blouse top, the sleeves of which hid my wires. Tossing the cloak onto the chair behind me, I set my hands down on the edge of the table before me. I leaned forward, meeting the man's eyes as much of a menacing glare as I could muster.

A silence filled the tavern. All of the occupants had put a hold on their own jolly celebrations, waiting for one of us to make the first move. I obliged them.

"You know, kid, I could very easily--" Cutting myself off in mid-sentence, I slid my hands underneath the table, gripping hard on the stained oak. I dropped my right leg behind me to give me some leverage. Then I lifted with all my might, spilling what remained of my Bloody Mary as the table rose end over end on a collision course with the face of my adversary. For such a big table, it was surprisingly light. I'll just chalk that up to the magic of the Citadel.

[Duffy]

Irony had a funny way of catching up on you. It liked to creep silently, scream in your ear when you were asleep, and then run off cackling like a school girl.

“Oh fu-” was all Duffy could mumble before he closed his eyes and turned to the one think he could count in life. He feverishly prayed. His song, carefully managed, mustered, and moulded into being disappeared from his memory. Instead, he prepared something altogether less dramatic.

He drew on the Union of Ages, the strong bond between the members of the Tantalum Troupe, and plucked from the ether Arden Janelle’s Blink ability.

He vanished. There was an audible intake of breath, gasping, and coughing. Several glasses were emptied, as if to reaffirm in the patron’s minds that they were drunk, and what they were seeing was all perfectly normal.

Instead of the table intended for her face smashing into his, which would have irked him greatly, it instead passed through awkward air and continued to travel quite out of harm’s way. Somehow, the patrons of the bar had been waiting for just a show of absurdity. Several of them slinked out of the advance of the table without so much as a hair out of place. Glasses clinked together in celebration, hearts raced, and several of the occupants nodded with a hearty dose of approval. Apparently, they had come here to witness something spectacular.

That was certainly a good start.

Duffy re-appeared two seconds, a lot of waiting, and several drinks later. He had stood on the jetty at the heart of The Aria for almost three hours, biding his time until the erratic nature of their Bardic legacy decided to vault him skywards back to reality. He was, to say the least, considerably less pleased when he re-appeared than when he had been moments before. He made a mental note to thank Ruby for leaving several spare bottle of Ambrosia Gin on a small trestle table on the solitude swaddled dock.

“You missed,” he snorted.

The table crashed long edge first into the wall to the right of the Root Canal’s rickety door. It, as one might have expected, shattered with a riotous scattering of splinters, nails, and broken dreams. The barkeep touted his displeasure half-heartedly. He had, despite being a fabrication, apparently seen this all before.

“Now, shall we try that again, shall we?” the double recitation served as a grammatical thrust with a witty blade. As the blue ribbons spiralled about the bard, petered out, and fell into nothingness, he flexed his spine and brought his cane upwards. In the tradition of the stage, the bar, and the streets from whence Duffy had sadly come, she had opened up the floor for debate.

Now, it was his turn to reply.

“I would like to try something a little more refined.” He cocked his head to the piano player, who had long since ceased his tickling of the ivories. On cue, the wiry moustached man began hammering away, quite as if his life depended on it. In a way, it did, because Duffy was a stern director, and he needed music to bring his performance to life.

“Oh?” Madison enquired wryly.

“You do not seem the sort to be used to that, though, so let me elaborate.” He span with a waltz that would have earned him a swift respite from his tutor. He ignored the twang of pain that shot up his leg, and slammed the tip of the Eraclaire walking cane down onto the sodden floor. “A Carmen sung mortis viol memoranda!” the words that shot out of his mouth were electrifying, sudden, and encapsulating.

Several of the patrons fizzled out as the spell song crashed against the providence of the Ai’bron monks.

He span again.

“A Carmen sung mortis viol memoranda!”

“A Carmen sung mortis viol memoranda!”

On the fourth rotation, the bard slammed the cane down once more. He held out his free hand, shook with inner fire, and clenched his fist about the hilt of the ancient dagger he had come to love, loathe, and long for in his dreams. Wainwright’s Riposte fell into his possession, and shone with the after image of a thousand dying suns as the Conjuring Cantor tethered it into his grip, stole it from its resting place in his armoury, and gifted him with a balancing tool against the uncouth woman’s blunt approach to a brawl.

“When a man with heart sings, the world sings with him,” he translated, for her benefit, then stepped into her personal space, quite uninvited, and drove his dagger with a pummel cupped in his hand. Its shadowy tip was aimed for her heart, his eyes burnt her chest, and his liquor tainted breath scoured the pleasantries from the air.

In the bard’s mind, now it was happy hour.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

It wasn't the sudden outburst of colorful music coming from the corner of The Root Canal that drew my attention. Nor was it the theatrical spinning, stomping and shouting of the boy before me. "A Carmen sung mortis viol memoranda! A Carmen sung mortis viol memoranda!"

No; it was the soft popping sound that echoed within the otherwise silent walls of The Root Canal. It was the sound of several random patrons... evaporating out of existance. My eyes traveled from my opponent to the back of the sunlit tavern, in time to see a fourth person simply and rapidly fade away with a light poof!.

What was going on here? The Ai'Brone monks usually had an unparalleled level of control over the magic that weaved itself through every fiber of the Citadel's innumerable arenas.

A fourth snap of the man's cane on the pockmarked wooden floor and a bright flash of light snapped my attention back to the matter at hand. Suddenly, I found the farmboy's hand in possession of a very shiny, exquisitly-crafted, and exceptionally dangerous-looking dagger. An equally malicious smirk crossed the lips of the boy's irritatingly-handsome face.

And suddenly, between this and his earlier disappearing trick, I felt that much less confident.

Before I could compose myself, my opponent sprung forth like a coiled snake, the point of his dagger closing the distance between his fist and my chest. Instinctively, I leaned backwards and threw my hands to the backside of my belt, where I usually kept my own daggers--these, of course, being the very same daggers that the bouncer at the front door confiscated from me before I could enter this wretched place.

"Shit," was all I was able to hiss out before I attempted to re-route my body to escape the path of the boy's piercing lunge. I juked left, but not quick enough--a loud, wet shunk! emitted from my right shoulder as the blade pierced my skin, smoothly going through muscle and scraping against bone. The force of the blow pushed me back against the wall. Blood began to ooze out of the space between flesh and steel.

I grit my teeth through the pain, trying desperately not to scream. I could smell the alcohol on my adversary's breath--Ambrosia Gin, if my own adventures with the bottle were correct. His tactics were certainly underhanded, but at least the boy had taste.

Before he had time to pull away, I reached up with both hands and gripped his thin wrists with as much power as I could muster. My entire right arm burned brightly with pain from the magically-acquired dagger being stuck through my shoulder. Unclenching my eyes, I glared directly into the boy's own with a harsh venom that would've sent a shiver down the spine of most men.

"You cheater," I screamed fury that shook the walls of The Root Canal. I swiftly brought up my left foot, a pointed kick aimed towards the boy's unprotected groin.

[Duffy]

No matter how strong the man, there was always one glaring weakness any woman on the planet, when called, would wilfully take advantage of. Despite his bravado, his candour, and his expertise with unsung arts, the bard fell to the floor lacking any of his style, grace, and finesse. He dropped the dagger, too, for good merit, and clutched his genital region with both palms cupped, all ten digits embracing the only real part of him that had any true meaning.

He had been about to rebuke the accusation of being a cheater, he had been more than willing to while away a moment destroying her argument with rhetoric and intellect. His opponent, it deemed, had other ideas.

“I’m the cheater?” he wheezed, a look of mixed agony and delight on his shrew like features. “Playing fair is,” he strained as he pushed himself upright, the numbness in his right leg, and the shattered bone painful enough to allow the throb in his testicles to fade quicker than most men could muster. “Apparently not in your repertoire either.”

Whips and edifices of illusory people continued to fade around them. As Duffy composed him, scooped up his dagger, and kept his eyes on watchful alert, he could not but notice that happy hour to the occupants was well and truly over. “Looks like we’re clearing this place out,” he said, with a stern glare to the barkeep, which just shook his head.

“It’s because you smell,” spat Madison, as she tended to the piercing wound on her shoulder. “Like horse shit.”

Duffy could only chuckle. “That’s remarkably oratory of you. Do you tell jokes as well?” With the cold twang of regret from his dagger roiling up his arm, he saw his one, single, and solitary opportunity to gain the upper hand back and took it. He was, like her, not beyond tabbing someone in the back when they were down and out. His footwork was swift, his pace a little off, and his cry gargled with pain and pitch.

Wainwrights’ Riposte, ablaze with shadow, smoke, and malice aforethought rushed ahead of its wielder. Blood trickled down his leg, oozing from the ripping skin as the magic that kept his leg verdantly wounded flared up in the presence of its master’s long forgotten power. Darkness illuminated nothing, but in the rarest of instances, it offered the willing hope.

“Knock knock,” she said, abandoning her wound.

“Whose there?” he asked, out of a strange need to be polite. Even as he thrust hi dagger towards her, he pictured the many painful punchlines she could use to put him right. He clenched his teeth, hoping none of them involved another table.


Apologies for the briefness. It's been a while, so hopefully, I'll have you on your toes come the next post - or preferably, bleeding, on your knees, and begging me to stop (not the first time I've said this recently...)

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

I tried to pay no attention to the popping and hissing of the tavern's patrons as they evaporated into thin air one by one. It was a distracting and disconcerting affair, however, and the reasons why the lapse in control from the Citadel's monks were starting to nip at me from the back of my mind. As much as I would've liked an answer, I had more pressing matters to attend to. The non-descript farmboy before me was starting to show his true self. From his little disappearing trick, to summoning a nasty dagger out of thin air and then being able to get up from a nasty kick that cancelled his date plans for the next couple of nights... Perhaps things were a bit more serious than I originally imagined here.

I stood at the ready, fists balled tight with whitening knuckles, as the boy slowly and painfully picked himself off the ground. After the sudden appearance of his dagger, I decided that a more defensive and reactive approach to this little scrap was going to be in order. I didn't want to play my trump card just yet--no, I would wait until the most opportune moment to unleash my wires.

The fact that my opponent favored one of his legs. A previous injury? Crippled, possibly? I filed that bit of information away for future use.

"...Do you tell jokes as well?" The boy sneered at me as he adjusted his grip on the terrible dagger. Sweat from the stifiling heat stuck to his matted black hair as it began to bead on his pain-stricken face. His eyes searched mine for a brief second, looking desperately for an opening.

He must've found one, for he suddenly sprung forward with another thrust of the dagger. Something was different, this time. The dagger--it was smoking. Between wisps of grey a sort of undescribable darkness emitted from the cold steel. Well, that's different, I thought to myself.

"Knock knock," I felt compelled to ask as I readied myself to deflect his strike.

As if it were a reflex, he gasped out, "Who's there?" My punchline would be one of a literal manner. I dropped my right foot behind me, and swept my right arm in an outward arc to knock aside his dagger thrust. And yet, I had momentarily forgotten about the ealier injury I had suffered. I tried to shut out the pain; but my arm was still suffering the immediate effects of the attack.

With a sudden burst of searing pain, I miscalculated my pitiful attempt to block the strike. Instead, I was a little faster than I needed to be; the farmboy's smoking dagger, rather than being effortlessly brushed aside, embedded itself into the palm of my hand.

What followed was a whole new level of pain I had never experienced before. Dark energy from the dagger began to seep into my torn flesh and severed blood vessels. A white-hot fire traveled through my nerves, setting my brain ablaze. My vision narrowed, flashing shades of red, black, and white.

I screamed bloody murder. More popping noises as, one by one, the remaining onlookers inside The Root Canal disappeared.

My fighting instinct kicked in at the very moment that the bartender himself vanished from existence. I had an opportune moment, and needed to capitalize on it before this boy could remove his dagger from the palm of my right hand and go for a killing blow. With my left fist balled tight, I drew it back and threw a punch with the force of a blacksmith's hammer aimed squarely at the boy's jaw.

[Duffy]

The first connected unceremoniously with the cartilage of Duffy’s nose. The thrice broken slither of bone that formed his shrew like face cracked, and the muscles that gave him the power to smell ruptured. Knocked for six, the bard stumbled backwards, weapon less, and without a clue as to what had just happened. He smelt only blood, gargled only blood, and saw only blood. Something unusual was happening in The Root Canal. Something that, as Duffy checked his opponent to guard against a follow-up blow to the follow up blow, he realised was beyond both their doing.

“That was,” he paused to spit a gobbet to the cracking, fading, and glowing floor tiles, “damned well –“ he snorted, a guttural drop of blood down his gullet followed. He wanted very much to vomit, “uncalled for.” Given he had been about to instil a particularity nasty flesh wound him, it had been certainly called for. Taking your hits with grace was something Duffy had never done, and never would do.

“I’m sorry?” she replied, incredulous and quite clearly irate. “That was called for,” she looked down at the fading floor, which was now glistening sand in places, “that, on the other hand,” she gestured to Duffy’s knife, “was not called for.”

Arriving at an impasse, the bard and the belle continued to stare at one another. Every few seconds, one would look away as another part of the tavern faded. There were intermittent cracks, shakes, and sprinkles of golden dust as the magic of the Ai’bron, centuries old, was undone. Neither combatant was willing to miss the spectacle.

“What did you do?” Duffy enquired, producing a handkerchief from the lapel of his jacket when the flood finally became insatiable with mere snorts and sniffles. He pressed it over his nostrils, and pinched with a vice like grip to stem the bleeding. With his free hand, he reached out, clicked his fingers, and conjured the silver-tipped cane to his side. He leant on it, in dire need of respite, but with nowhere left to take the strain off his injured shin, he had only the comfort of the black lacquered wood to appease his fatigue.

“What did I do?” Madison scowled. She was in her right mind to gut him there and then, but something was… “Danger is afoot, and you’re fingering blame?” she was more disreputable than she had imagined. The pain surged in her wound, as if the shadows that had surrounded the blade still lingered. Something was working its way into something more previous than her heart – it was eager to find her soul. It was evil, and necrotic, and was stealing away what time she had left.

Duffy wrinkled his forehead, deep in contemplation. In the time it took him to arrive at a conclusion, the last of the tavern’s tables and chairs had popped out of existence, leaving just the four shattered walls and an empty, bottles, and thus useless bar as a strange, pseudo-backdrop for their rhetoric. “Forgive me for thinking this was your doing. The dagger was the monk’s idea.” He tilted his back, cocksure and arrogant, but drowning in blood.

“Liar,” she spat. “You cheated, plain and simple.” A seed of doubt entered her mind.

“When I came to the reception, they suggested I take weapons, provided I didn’t take them in by hand.” He had resorted to spell song as the only means he had of defending himself. If he had not been able to do so, to borrow Leopold’s vernal vault, he was certain he would be dead by now. Or at the very least, he expected to have a broken arm, shin, and a few splintered ribs to complete the set of war wounds appropriate for a tavern brawl. “They clearly did not give you the same instruction…” he added, though with less pitch and enthusiasm.

“No…” she said, flatly, dryly, and with contempt.

“Okay, well, I think it’s clear whatever arena you constructed has been undone because one of us,” he glared, inferring her, “has done something to counteract the conditions placed up us.” This was less happy hour, and more a harrowing hour. Duffy’s head hurt just from the implication of having broken the Citadel. “What do you say to shaking hands, calling it quits, and getting the fuck out of here?”

As he stepped forwards, he tensed his muscles, in every inch of his body, and felt out with his aura to check the small steel dagger tucked into the back of his belt was still firmly lodged where he had hidden it an hour or so before. He extended a firm, robust hand to her, and waited. The second her fingertips touched his, there was a blur, a flash, and a roar. Tooth, the dagger that had killed Duffy five centuries ago, lunged forwards.

“THIS is cheating!” he clucked. Blood sprayed everywhere, eyes erupted with madness, and dignity went firmly the way of the tavern.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

The sharp crack of pain along my left knuckles paled immensely in comparison to the hell that my right hand was going through. The wound caused by the boy's dagger was pouring blood from both openings. The dagger itself had be come loose and fell to the floor with an unceremonious clang when I cracked its wielder across the jaw. I wrapped my hand in the edges of my cloak, hoping to staunch the flood of crimson liquid. But there was something else--an indescribable pain that was beginning to wrack my entire body. It was as if some dark, malevolent force were sapping every last bit of strength I had left.

I felt weak, all of a sudden. My stomach turned, I felt like I wanted to throw up. My knees buckled, nearly causing me to collapse to the tavern floor.

Poof! The last remnants of life aside from the Citadel's two chosen combatants dissipated; exiled back to the very ether that the monks constructed them from.

Two warriors, battered and bloody, taking a brief pause. Words; accusations and taunts were thrown into the air to break the deathly silence that filled The Root Canal. Countless thoughts flew through my mind, trying to figure out how I could end this fight decisively before... before whatever was in that boy's dagger had time to completely work through my body.

Leaning on his cane, the boy suddenly offered a truce; being mindful of my demolished right hand, his left hand extended outwards. Clearly, our little arena was deteriorating as quickly as both of us.

Ah, I thought to myself as the opportunity I had been searching for suddenly presented itself.

I staggered forward several steps, slowly letting my wires unravel from around my upper arms. This would be simple: Take the hand shake, and bind him to me with one end of the cable while the other end snapped out constricted itself around his throat. An unceremonious, back alley-style strangulation.

Saying nothing, my left hand came out from inside the protective wrappings of my cloak. Our fingertips touched, ever so briefly. But before I could command my wires to strike, there was a flash of steel and a shout from my opponent. I couldn't get out of the way in time. The knife he suddenly produced found its way into my throat, piercing flesh and blood. My wires slackened, collapsing to the dirty and blood-stained floor of the tavern.

And trust me, you do not want to know how painful this was. Words cannot describe.


-----

I awoke with a start and a gasp on one of the many cold slabs of polished stone that the monks have in their healing chambers. The air inside was cool and stale, and felt good as it entered my lungs. My hand instinctively reached for my throat; my pale flesh was perfectly smooth and whole. A testament to the healing capacity of the Ai'Brone. And yet, my right hand felt stiff.

I looked down, seeing that there was a perfect line of a scar, about an inch and a half long, covering the palm and back of my hand.

Without missing a beat, the bald, robed, and otherwise nondescript monk who had tended to my injuries piped up. "The magic that enchanted your opponent's dagger was of a particularly strong and dangerous variety."

"His dagger..." My voice sounded distant as I examined my newest keepsakes.

"Yes. It was necromantic magic, slowly eating away at your very soul. We had a hard time just purifying your body after you perished in battle; unfortunately, our magic--"

I glared at the monk with the harsh fury of the sun that shone through the stained-glass windows of the Citadel. "His dagger, the one that he was not supposed to have in the first place." I slid off the stone tablet and drew closer to him, my footsteps echoing throughout the chamber. "My stipulation was one weapon allowed in the fight--"

"Which you both had," the monk interrupted, his brown eyes suddenly narrowing. "You chose your wires; your opponent opted for a plain dagger. The very one he ended the battle with."

My voice flared up in anger. "I'm referring to the other dagger, monk. The one he summoned out of nowhere. The one that did this." I raised my right hand to his face, allowing him to take in the two scars that would forever remind me of today. "These--these right here--look at them!"

The monk did not flinch, to his credit. But the stern tone of his voice revealed that he was beginning to lose his patience with me. "The summoning of his dagger was never ruled out by your silly little stipulation, miss. That you underestimated the abilities of your opponent and wrote him off as weaker than you upon first sight--"

I lost control. I balled up my left hand, and raised it to strike down the monk. He raised his right hand and snapped his fingers, emitting a dull glow of bluish-green light. I could feel the palm of my right hand tear open; a searing, white-hot pain traveling up my arm and into my brain. I howled and collapsed to the floor. A small trickle of blood streamed out, sliding down the contours of my skin and onto the black sifan fabric of my cloak.

"You also forget that our healing abilities are a privilege--not a required service. Someone of your temper might do well to remember that." My eyes did not leave the form of the robed Ai'Brone monk as he made his way towards the heavy oak door that led to the main hall of the Citadel. "There are some bandages in the cupboard along the far wall. Tend to your wounds, and clean up the blood before you leave."

[Duffy]

Duffy had to grin, a big, broad, and barely contained smile of triumph. Though he was, for want of a better word, in considerable pain, and struggling to breathe through his nostrils, he had proven himself right, put Madison Freebird in her place, and learnt something in the process.

“Did you really silent sing?” Ruby had to raise an eyebrow, a flash of disbelief behind a low, messy, and greying fringe. She adjusted the hem of her dress, with a usual cluck, and rested her hands on her ample hips. The streams of sunshine danced along the boulevard as they walked away from the Citadel, the crusty, sandstone flagstones kicked up dust as they advanced.

“I am not sure.” He was, but he had to really be sure before he rubbed it in her face. “When I wove the magic through the Vernal Vault, I altered the way of conjured the blade. It was almost as if I embedded a reprise, a chorus, and an end stop into the very fabric of the arena.”

“Which you blew up,” she continued, eyes to the sky, heart racing. If Duffy had, somehow, broken the confines of the ancient rules of spell song, then there was hope for them yet. “The monks made me pay considerable compensation for the amount of time and energy it will take them to restore normalcy to the dome you fought in.”

“Did you bribe them with your assets?” he chuckled. The click of his cane was the only thing that broke through the aura of contempt and silence. “No, I guess not,” he sighed. She relented her dagger throwing, and held out a hand. He embraced it, and they walked arm in arm out onto the North Boardwalk that lead to the docks.

“She did not look impressed, when I went to apologise.”

“You talked to her?” Duffy frowned. “Was there any need?”

“Duffy, we used the Citadel to test something that needn’t have caused someone else such…discomfort.” She had seen the wound caused by the dagger. The shadow magic, too, their once enemies’ potent curse, had lingered long after the blade had broken skin. “Madison Freebird will remember your face for a long, long time.” It seemed more like a warning than a fact. Duffy could not but feel as if he were being protected by Ruby, as if she were excluding something Madison had said to her in the apocathery’s hall.

“This was for Raiaera, Ruby.” Duffy shrugged. His aching shoulder, which had been jolted by the over exertion shot pain down his leg. It mingled with the freshly bleeding skin over his shin, and he had to grit his teeth and steel his temple. Suddenly, his sympathy for her pain grew exponentially. “But…” he took a deep breath. Ruby, who was still embracing him, rocked back as she realised as he had stopped.

“Duffy…what is wrong?” her eyes danced with inner fire, part worry, and part emotion. “Duffy…” she whispered, in case she caused too much of a scene and attracted unwanted attention. “Is it Lucian?” she pressed her hand onto the thick, dusty shoulder of his long overcoat.

“Not…” he pinched the bridge of his nose. The pain, quite indescribable, made him swear rather loudly, “Exactly.” If Lucian were a mad, chain flailing drunk, it might have been easier to blame him. Madison had delivered quite the sucker punch to his cartilage.

“The monks said the magic that keeps my leg from healing is…spreading. It will take time for the nose to heal, far more time than I am entirely comfortable with.” He continued to walk, so that his pain was his own, and Ruby could enjoy the brief stop they would make at the ice cream parlour before returning home. “I am lucky it will heal at all, the monk’s nearly gave in with their charitable attempts.”

The look of worry on Ruby’s voice said it all. Her hair caught the sun as they turned a corner, and it flashed mercury and silver. Duffy watched her as she approached the door to the parlour, and let her hand slip from his. He leant on his cane, watched her slip inside with a floral flourish and red silk streaks of splendour, and delved into his sorrow filled thoughts. Whilst it had, for just a few bright moments, been happy hour in The Root Canal, there would be no joy in the future for the troupe. He would bear his war wounds, his swollen, bloodied, and seeping nostrils with pride.

“Madison Freedbird,” he said fondly, “thank you.” He approached the parlour, eyes fixed firmly on one of the iron tables and chairs outside on the flower bespeckled veranda. “Thank you…” his thanks, though heartfelt, would never reach her eyes. She had done more for him than she could ever realise. If he had the chance, he would let her punch him over, and over, and over again. If these were the last days of Duffy Bracken, then he was clad that the cataclysm for his end was a woman’s wrath.

He smiled, sat, and let the weight on his shoulders push him into a slouch.

“It’s after all, how all this started…”

[Revenant]

Condensed rubric requested. BlackandBlueEyes’ scores will be in red. Duffy Bracken’s scores will be in blue.

Plot: (20 / 17) – Both of you had really good pacing throughout the thread, with most of your posts flowing very easily from one to the next. While you both had a decent lead into the scene, BlackandBlueEyes really made a better impression and maintained a bit more focus on the surrounding area than Duffy. Likewise, it was BlackandBlueEyes who made the impression that there was a deeper story going on between the characters than a simple bar room brawl.

Character: (20 / 21) – Both of you have a decent handle on who your characters are and how to present them to your readers but Duffy edged it out here with a bit more character.

Prose: (16 / 16) – There were quite a few spelling errors in both of your posts. Please take your time when posting to spell-check your work.

Wildcard: (5 / 5)

Total: (61 / 59)

BlackandblueEyes wins.

BlackandBlueEyes receives 3025 exp and 75 gp.
Duffy Bracken receives 825 exp and 75 gp.

[Revenant]

EXP/GP added.