Beneath the vaulted roof of Duke Chevalier's banqueting hall twenty or so of Saturnalia's most famed and dangerous adventurers eye each other suspiciously. It's an eclectic bunch which covers the span from valiant paladin to treacherous demonologist with all the shades between... an explosive mix. Fate has conspired such that these natural enemies, some with long standing personal feuds, have arrived early with no more courtly guests to dilute their animosities and buffer one from another. Surely it is not a question of if violence will flare but simply who will strike the first blow?
Olaaf can restrain himself no longer. It is not the sight of so many servants of Good gorging themselves that breaks his customary composure, no flood of deathly black flame is loosed from his staff. Rather it is the call of the stage that he can no longer resist. With rather an ungainly scramble he hauls his bleached bones up onto the platform. Once on stage Olaaf whips out a small ebony and bone drum and proceeds to augment the bohemian rhapsody to which the trio of lovelies gyrate as it wafts down from the musicians' gallery. Olaaf's voice isn't what it once was, what with losing his vocal chords, but he manages to grate along in reasonable tune as he croons a number by the 'famous' bard Elton John,
So... we have Olaaf still crooning valiantly on stage. Lathspell is keeping a very low profile and keeping a wary eye on as many people as possible. Rupert is in the grip of Chevalier's 'red haze' and in a terrible rage is battling his way through the mountainous corpse of the elephant to get at Snowolf. Alberich has 'swum' out from beneath the table and is advancing on Mace obviously blaming him for forcing this year's bath on him early. Sigurd is advancing on the battered Volgaris announcing, "Chew Web-footed Death" as he tries to get his rebellious zombie-swan under control. Blade is free of the cake and charging along the table towards Chevalier, bellowing incoherently. Snowolf is standing up brushing chunks of elephant from his chainmail, amazed to be in one piece and looking teary-eyed at the messy corpse of his steed. Frankly it was doomed from the word go!
Mantis has battered his two yard salmon sufficiently to end its brief unlife. He has also cut his laces, marvelling at the depths of Just's madness.. his footwear was without laces and the Dianodian added laces to the boots just so he could play his trick! Now the weather mage sprints across the room slapping Alberich around the back of the head with his forty pound fish. Surprisingly the dwarf is not floored by the passing blow but is staggered, enabling Mace to step into the fight and lay him out with a kick to the throat. Mace seems happy to keep to fisticuffs but his chances of punching out Alberich clad as he is in full dwarven plate are minimal. Add to this the fact that Mace can't actually drop his axe and so has only one fist for punching and it seems inevitable that these two axemen will soon be trading lethal cuts.
Meanwhile!
Mark
General Disclaimer:
Almost all of you will find that much of what you intended has not taken place. With twenty different agendas to take into account it is no simple task to make any kind of sense let alone satisfy a dozen conflicting takes on the same situation (i.e the elephant - public enemy number one!). Also in order that the brawl does indeed end in approximately 3 rounds rather than 26 it is necessary that fights actually terminate without individual recourse to last chance orders and re-thinks. Hence some of you have been done over when in-game the turn would have ended giving you a chance to formulate new tactics. Finally 750 Combat ability is very good, 750 Mp is well on the way to magedom - in the present company such stats are poo and one should not take abject failure here as a reason to under-rate the character in more common situations. Similarly one should not take the fact your character has single handedly defeated two ogres or whatever as cause to complain when Just disarms them with a twiglet.
"Chevalier's night all right for fighting."
From across the hall Sir Weapon looks up from his debate with Mumbles and points to the musicians' gallery. Using the power of word-association combined with the levity laws prevalent in the Dream World he grossly abuses the Orthian spell 'Track' to change the song and suddenly the musicians are playing an entirely different ditty, 'War' by the equally well known bard Bruce Springstein. Olaaf copes quite well all things considered, adhering to the ethic - the show must go on. Chevalier quickly steps in, since a precedent has been set he too pushes the dream-limits of word-association magic and casts that Orthian favourite, 'Animate Weapon'. The Duke points his right hand at his right-hand man and instantly Sir Weapon stops what he's doing to dance a foolish jig to the new music.
Olaaf's surly looking bodyguard, Cid, grits his teeth and moves to the base of the stage, ready to hurl back any over-enthusiastic members of the audience who want to try and mob the impresario.
The plate armoured Blade cuts an impressive figure (if you'll excuse the pun) in his southern-style armour. The light of the chandeliers may gleam on his shaven scalp but it positively glitters on the large diamond that serves in place of his right eye, sited in a mass of livid scar tissue. Also gleaming in his dark complexion are his white teeth as he smiles broadly at the dancers. Moving to the stage he tries to emulate Olaaf only to find Cid, the self-appointed bouncer, hauling him back. Cid has quite a reputation in Cursiter as a hard man, psychopath and fine swordsman, nevertheless he doesn't see Blade's fist until it's way too late. The Orthian's punch lands like a thunderbolt and Cid is sent sprawling. Blade has no interest in taking the matter further and levers himself up onto the raised platform. It quickly becomes clear that Blade has no designs on Olaaf's old bones and has fixed his sights instead upon the ample charms of the dancing girls.
Cid clambers to his feet, wiping away gouts of blood from his nose and spitting out half a tooth. He looks murderously at Blade's armoured back but returns to his station. Blade strides confidently up to the dancer who seems to be having problems with her steps,
"Need a little help warming up darling?"
He reaches for her wrist, pulls the woman to him and clamps his mouth to hers.
"Mmmmgggfff!"
Suddenly Blade's head jerks back and he howls in wordless pain, spraying out so remarkable a volume of blood that had Sir Andre not had the misfortune to be in the privy he would undoubtedly be flying to the stage with a goblet even now. The dancing girl spits out what looks to be at least three quarters of Blade's tongue.
"You beast!" She declares.
The slap that catches Blade around the side of the head seems to lack any real force but the Orthian takes off as if hit by a battering ram. Blade sails through the air on a flat trajectory past Sigurd, narrowly missing Volgaris and hitting the massive cake with a wet *thunk*. For a moment everyone stares in solemn silence at the two legs protruding from the side of the coronation cake.
All six Eleanor Wolfsbanes decide that this is clearly the signal for general mayhem. Two loose bolts of blinding light at the peaceable elephant, one at the vicious dancer and three set off in pursuit of Inquisitor Major Jaltra who has vanished up the dias stairs and round the corner. Snowolf has already cast a number of spells on his huge steed, including a ward. The elephant lurches back, causing Arlas Nightweaver to spill his wine (as one tends to when body-checked by a five ton pachyderm and sent slamming into a wall), Snowolf manages to calm the beast though - whether it is blind or not is unclear. It isn't until Snowolf urges his steed forwards a few steps that Gitt's fate becomes known. The trickster had been crossing over to the other side of the fireplace when the elephant made its sudden retreat. Gitt is now revealed in the fireplace when he was thrown, covered in the brown steaming evidence of the elephant's fear.
"Purgamentum init, exit purgamentum." Comments Gitt's owl, Bastard, returning from the food table with a croissant in each taloned foot.
Bilbo Pond frowns and points at the dancing girl. Sexual harassment is a bad thing but she does seem to have over-reacted! The Trolinite shows that he's taken advantage of living in Darhan and mastered some Haquarian magic. The dispelling enchantment hits home, stripping away layers of magical disguise and revealing Duke Chevalier standing red-chinned where the dancer stood. This can't bode well for the Orthian reputation, not only have two top warriors just snogged on stage but the cross-dressing Duke has just reinforced those rumours circulating the city offering alternative suggestions as to why Chevalier has been so slow to try and rescue his wife from captivity... Strangely enough Chevalier doesn't appear to have been blinded by Eleanor's spell.
The Duke on the dias stands and walks calmly down the stairs towards Volgaris who is still gorging himself, oblivious to the odd flying Orthian. Jaltra makes his move. Not letting the throne have a chance to cool he dives into it the instant it's vacated and adopts a sprawling lounging posture. As three fierce looking scar-faced Eleanor's round the corner and blast him with 'Blinded by the Light' spells Jaltra loudly bemoans the lack of a Corgulian Duke to prevent such chaos developing.
"Now if I were Duke..."
He lifts his pre-loaded heavy crossbow and puts a quarrel neatly between the eyes of the lead Eleanor, showering the one behind with fragments of skull and a fair splatter of brain-pulp. It seems that luck, mental strength or the intricate visor of Jaltra's mithril helm have rendered the blinding beams of the Haquarians utterly ineffective...
Volgaris had earlier been sparing the dancing girls the odd leer but later his attention was divided solely between the gorgeous Lathspell and his chicken. Just recently though he arrived at the conclusion that the rather nastily scarred sextuplets beside Lathspell who are spoiling his view of her must indeed be witches... and Volgaris can't abide witches. As the trio hunting Jaltra pass Volgaris by he seizes the large fish before him and stands, promptly toppling over as he discovers too late that Just has tied his laces together. As the pale giant falls he rather neatly flattens the two passing 'witches'.
Like Volgaris Alberich's first priority was getting as much from the free feast as possible and after draining a particularly enormous flagon of raw spirits the dwarf slithers noisily beneath the table. Rupert Blair deftly swiped the large pitcher from which Alberich's flagon was filled as the waiter passed him earlier and now strolls towards Gitt clutching said dispenser of alcoholic excess. As he passes by Lady Ariaana Rupert sneers in the direction of his fellow dwarf, clearly feeling the fellow has let the side down... even if he does have a beard.
Just as Volgaris has broken free of his foot-bonds and gained his feet the throne-Chevalier reaches him and lays a stiff-fingered silver hand heavily on the warrior's broad shoulder. Seeing violence in the offing Sigurd - across the table - stands up and hefts the large roast swan (it's a female swan - this will become 'important' later) from the platter before him, preparing to back up his liege lord. Down at the far end of the table Mantis seems to have taken offense at something and also stands, choosing a two yard salmon as his tool of negotiation. Sigurd lifts his chosen fowl on high, as Volgaris rises to his full towering seven foot, and dredges the very depths of punning to deliver the immortal line,
"The pen is mightier than the sword!"
Thankfully at this point necromancy takes over. The rhythmic beat that Olaaf has been adding to the music has more than a little death-magic associated with it. The first clue to its effect is when the Blade's severed tongue starts inch-worming towards the nearest dancer, sending her and her companion screaming through the stage exit. The real target of this dark enchantment though is the dinner table. Sigurd's swan jerks a crispy webbed foot into his eye. Mantis' salmon twists in his grip and wraps itself swiftly around his head. Both men then fall over since Just has tied their laces together. At this point Mace, who quietly slipped behind the fish tank expecting to be a popular early target, breaks the front of the tank, adding a flood of live fish and enraged crabs to the woes of Sigurd, Mantis and Alberich as they flounder on the floor by or under the table.
Back on the table The whole roast boars rise from their platters and spit their apples out with admirable accuracy, both striking Volgaris in the groin, then one follows with a food scattering charge towards the albino whilst the other jumps from the table to charge the elephant.
The elephant in question has now turned towards the exit at Snowolf's suggestion. A strange squeaking noise is sounding around the hitherto unflappable elephant's ears and it's all Snowolf can do to keep the creature from taking off. Despite being busy the Moranan has also worked a minor miracle, calling on the Goddess to create a frightening array of cream cakes, now lined before him on the edge of the howdah. The former wielder of the Sword of Morana is just reaching for the first of these edible missiles when the tongue-biting Chevalier points in his direction. An intense battle fury surrounds Snowolf, Arlas Nightweaver, Gitt and Rupert so powerfully driven that all of them are seized in its grip. For the elephant and Bastard the effect is so forceful that it's a wonder they don't die of instant brain haemorrhages.
'How do.' Mumbles nods to Lady Ariaana as he passes on his way to the stage - for some reason he's covered in pink goo...
Lady Ariaana is standing reasonably clear of the charging battle-crazed elephant, she has secured herself a hefty platter loaded with vittles and is just plopping a prawn into her mouth when Olaaf's drum beat hits the particular tone that wakes this particular member of the dead and sets it dancing. The unpleasant experience of having a king prawn animate in her mouth distracts Lady Ariaana just enough to give Mace his chance. The last Servant of Loviatar had been sidling closer and closer, hoping she wouldn't notice and being wrong. Now however he seizes his chance. To be fair Ariaana reacts with the speed and skill of a seasoned warrior and blocks the hefty swing of the large live fish with her plate. Unfortunately Mace is an excellent warrior and the strength of his blow is enough to set the Destuite on her backside where she twists aside just in time to avoid an unbidden bite from Mace's rebellious axe. All this has moved the region's most feared sorceress almost squarely in the path of the elephant.
The elephant's trumpeting as it accelerates towards Lady Ariaana is loud enough to bring two chandeliers crashing down. One of these lands on two of the Eleanors, narrowly missing the glass pyramid and silencing the squeaking immediately. The other would have hit Ariaana but for the Destu sorceress' lightning dive to the side.
Chevalier increases the mayhem with a well aimed spell that snaps a vital link in the elephant's harness. The howdah, Snowolf and the cream cakes all slide to the left and end up dangling beneath the charging elephant's belly. Snowolf manages a major miracle by somehow emerging from behind the elephant without a large round foot print stamped into his head. His only noticeable 'injury' is a full face collision with the most creamy of his cream cakes, leaving him blinded far more effectively than any of the Ms Wolfsbanes spells seem able to do.
The phrase 'jumping out of the frying pan into the fire' probably didn't flash through Ariaana's skull as she avoided the plummeting chandelier just to find herself directly in the path of the maddened elephant. It is to her credit that she managed with the aid of her 'rod of harm' to punch a hole right through the pachyderm's thick forehead, entirely through its body and out the rear with a big enough exit hole to evenly distribute the creature's bottom over the hall from the fireplace to stage. Unfortunately it is to her posthumous credit since even a top flight shadow weaver can't argue with momentum. Rather like the wicked witch of the west Ariaana ends up squashed with only her shoes sticking out... actually she looks rather like Blade... except that Blade has begun to crawl out now, only to find himself being attacked by several zombie lobsters. It seems self-evident that Lady Ariaana has been the target for an unusually large number of maliciously cast chance spells...
Chevalier's duplicate is making short work of Volgaris. Although the larger man is undoubtedly a fine pugilist with the advantage of reach the duplicate is fast, strong and reads the combat with an uncanny skill that enables it to land punishing blow after punishing blow on his foe. To his credit though Volgaris is putting up much more of a fight against Chevalier than at the last brawl. And all this despite two granny smiths to the groin and being viciously butted from behind by a roast dinner. In the end it is Bilbo Pond who saves Volgaris the indignity of falling to a single Haquarian spell when he reduces the duplicate to a wisp of brimstone with a gesture.
As for the red-haze, by the time he was in a position to act upon the Orth-inspired anger that gripped him Snowolf's well-schooled mind had freed itself from the influence. Just and Sir Jerival are watching in amazement from the gallery with silly grins on their faces whilst the band plays on. Gitt emerged from the dung-filled fireplace just in time to have the elephant's shredded backside added to its former contents and now stands their dripping whilst he fends off his owl. He too was free of Chevalier's battle-rage by the time he was in a position to hit anything. Arlas Nightweaver on the other hand, like Rupert, is completely berserk and ignoring any of the more subtle attack methods he may possess he charges Gitt wielding a plump halibut he scooped up from the flooded floor. Gitt for his part fishes a small stick from behind his ear, allows it to spring into a full-sized staff, and whacks the Renchuite around the head as he rushes up, moving to one side and sending him head first into the dung pile. Gitt then has the immense pleasure of throttling Bastard who has just clawed him deeply across the face. Gitt hasn't long to enjoy this minor victory, an orange hits him in the eye, lobbed by Lathspell. She waves cheerily, takes another orange from the fruit bowl at the corner of the table and shies at her fellow Haquarian. This one hits Gitt on the left temple - he's becoming rather browned off with this banquet... in more ways than one.
Mantis carries on past Alberich, casting a spell as he goes so that the musicians' gallery experiences twelve inches of snowfall in roughly ten seconds. Drawing nearer his target he slaps Snowolf with his fish, a stinging upper-cut that certainly gets the warrior's attention. Snowolf seems up for a fist-fight and lands a crunching punch on Mantis' nose. The hefty weather-mage staggers back, surprised that his magical protections haven't prevented Snowolf from interfering with his whirlwind progress. Snowolf however has a mentality at odds with his blunt exterior and his raw magical force considerably exceeds Mantis'. In addition although Mantis would have to brawl all day and night for a year in common taverns to find a man who could put him down he is now dealing with one of the saviours of Bisha. Snowolf clearly has Mantis' measure and begins to give him a very sound thrashing. Although the Moranan has taken an elephant-kick in the ribs his stamina is a thing of legend and the punches Mantis lands just seem to slide off.
"Excuse me gentlemen, coming through... hello Snowolf." It's Mumbles 'Mr Blobby' Heretic passing by the brawling pair on his way to the stage.
Snowolf lays Mantis out with a right to the jaw, side steps Rupert Blair and kicks the dwarf in the back of the head. As Mantis heaves himself up Snowolf's boot connects with his jaw sending the Somolian firmly into unconsciousness. The dwarf wheels round and comes on bellowing. Snowolf's knee breaks Rupert's jaw and the double fisted overhead swing that hammers into the back of the hairless dwarf's neck removes him from the brawl.
Mace is busy, he and Alberich are locked in a deadly axe combat, both evenly matched in skill, both with tremendously deadly weapons. Mace's agility somewhat off-setting the dwarf's advantage in his plate armour. It's a fine fight well worth anyone's time to watch and surely one of the greatest clash of axemen in living memory. Nether-the-less Mace - like Burt in the first BarRoom Brawl - is almost certainly here posthumously and as such he is intent on wrecking maximum chaos. Diving back the hook-haired warrior calls on Renchu's power, he's not on the best terms with the death god any more but he manages to work his chosen spell.
Snowolf is standing panting over the senseless forms of Mantis and Rupert when his beloved elephant rises smoothly to its four feet, courtesy of Mace... and jumps on him. Meanwhile close at hand Gitt is slugging it out with Arlas. The Haquarian is pretty tasty with his staff and definitely has the upper hand but Arlas just seems to soak up damage that should floor an normal man and with fist and fish is wearing Gitt down. Having put the persistent Renchuite down for the fifth time just to see him rise again Gitt loses patience.
"Burn!!" He demands crossly.
Arlas begins to smoulder, Gitt grits his teeth, digs deep and repeats the command with immense dedication. Thin coils of smoke escape Gitt's nostrils and rise from his ears. As for Arlas he explodes into a column of fire. Much to Gitt's distress the living torch staggers towards him and before the Haquarian can fend him off with his staff Arlas has set his robes alight. Gitt dives back into the shit. When he emerges he has a world class headache from working the enchantment, feels weak and shaky and smells... well no worse than when he dived in really. However battered Gitt feels it can be said that Arlas had the worst of it since he now feels nothing but crispy.
Luck suddenly deserts Mace as it has been wont to do at regular intervals throughout his life. A blancmange-coated duplicate of Mumbles comes to the aid of his 'chairman' Alberich. The duplicate weighs in with a two handed flail and proves to be every bit as good a warrior as Mace. Outnumbered Mace's days look numbered, actually his seconds look numbered and rather few digits are involved....
The two dagger-bearing Eleanors reach the throne before Jaltra can reload, flinging more beams of brilliance at his visor as they come. It may be that the major was dazzled for the lead Eleanor gets the first blow in, grabbing at the Corgulian's cloak and slashing a large chunk of it away. It seems that some elaborate debagging is afoot, one worth dying for. Jaltra feels confident enough not to swing his silver sword against this pair of witches. His confidence appears well placed as he punches one so hard she tumbles heels over head back down the dias steps, he sweeps the feet of the other from under her. Jaltra's falls to his knees, one of the aforementioned joints landing heavily on the fallen Eleanor's throat. The unfortunate Eleanor is unconscious by the time the second one arrives to be hit a second and final time.
Close by Jaltra's woman troubles Volgaris is in battle with Sigurd, rather cross that the Corgulian is keeping him from joining the Inquisitor Major in persecuting these damned witches. Witches that he still holds responsible for the sacrifice of his favourite sheep.
Sigurd and Volgaris are well matched, both fine brawlers on a par with Mantis and a notch up from Gitt. Volgaris has already sustained a battering from Chevalier's duplicate though and the persistent young abbott of Egdelwonk is able, with first swan then fist and boot to, to put him down for the count after a classic punch up. Sigurd finally stumbles away from the toppling white giant, spitting out a tooth, both eyes black, nose flattened and streaming blood.
The Eleanors are busy cursing Jaltra to Renchu's Kingdom and back, using curse spells not just words, but Jaltra is grinning at them rather than succumbing to the embarrassing fate they're laying out for him. The multiple Haquarian is saved from further failure when across the room Gitt wipes clean a huge tuning fork that he's fished from his pack and strikes a clear tone. Aiming the fork at the first of the remaining Eleanors he hollers,
"Recognise this ladies?"
Gitt has plenty of experience with the mirror-magic that has led to Eleanor's split personality. The first victims of the focused column of resonance are the glasses forming the pyramid. As one they explode, peppering Sigurd, Lathspell and the Eleanors with broken glass. The next victim is the first Eleanor whose face explodes as the embedded glass shards shatter. Gitt sweeps the fork across the remaining incarnations with repeat results, leaving all of them as bloody messes.
Jaltra is free of psychotic witches wishing to save him from his clothing but he has other worries now. Just is winging towards the throne shaking snow off his wings and twirling a worried looking fish in one hand (this particular species of fish always look at least mildly concerned). Jaltra unsportingly lets fly with his freshly loaded crossbow, Just veers and the bolt misses him by half an inch. Just slaps the pretender to the throne across the face with his fish, cracking Jaltra's head first to the right then to the left before winging off back to the balcony. Whether or not this is some strangely sub-aqua invitation to a duel Jaltra knows not but he's having no part of it, well versed as he is in Just's crimes and madness.
Snowolf quickly comes to the conclusion - tumbling out of the way of a huge tusk - that one does not take out an undead elephant with one's fists and hauls out his sword. The Moranan battles the zombie tusker around the room, trashing the table in the process and kicking off various roast boars, lobsters and headless chickens who attempt to aid their undead comrade. Although Snowolf is a marvellous swordsman and moves like greased lightning he has taken a beating and is being worn down by the seemingly unstoppable undead feast. Fortunately Sir Jerival now speeds from the gallery stairway, casting aside the gong and gong beater that he'd liberated to use on fellow brawlers and drawing two longswords. The knight's agility is such that he puts even Snowolf to shame. As Sir Jerival dances through the wet chaos of splintered furniture, sea food and unconscious guests his swords blur, a razor-edged ballet that reduces the various animated foodstuffs to neatly sliced portions and finally hamstrings then butchers the troublesome pachyderm. Hardly having worked up a sweat Sir Jerival stands shoulder to shoulder with his muck splattered companion who definitely looks to have been in the wars.
Blade had been rather pleased to be asked to the coronation and intended only the utmost respect towards his host. However when the host bites off your tongue all bets are off! Blade dives upon the Duke from the table just as it is crushed by zombie-phant. This is Duke Chevalier of the silver arm, a legend in the northwest and undefeated in combat for many years. Blade cares nothing for reputations, he ducks under the silver fist as it hisses through the air and his reply would have crushed the Duke's throat but for the quick interposition of the royal chin.
The two Orthians go to work. The pace and power of the fight is breath-taking, the men read each other's moves and react on battle-honed reflex. This is a world away from the Bishan pit-fighting circuit, any of these punches would kill were it to land cleanly. Each man uses his whole body as a weapon. Blade is slower in his plate armour but the metal encasing him is vital to protect against that silver fist that somehow leaves dents and deep scratches in the thick metal breastplate. Chevalier's chainmail absorbs much of the force from Blade's gauntletted punches to the body but a hit to the face could end it all. The fight is hard to read but to Just who watches with interest from the gallery it seems that Blade might have the advantage by a hair's breadth.
In the end it is Chevalier who calls a halt. He is here to have fun not get beaten up by some damned foreigner in his own court. The two are caught in a clinch, every muscle straining, Blade slowly forcing Chevalier's arms back. Rather than call on Orth for strength Chevalier uses the 'leap' spell again. Twisting the magic is easy for the Duke and he jolts the enchantment through his opponent. All the men of Exile seem to have an innate stubborn resistance to magic - maybe that's why it is so rare over there or maybe it's something in the water, either way its hard to work a spell on them. The spell Chevalier casts, just like the 'red haze' and the previous 'leap' is driven by such an iron will though that it tramples all such resistance underfoot and Blade once again performs a spectacular leap, becoming a missile under Chevalier's guidance.
"Oi!" Complains Mumbles as he jerks out of Blade's path, splattering pink goo over Cid.
Olaaf casts 'missile shield' just a split second too late and takes the full rib-snapping force of Blade's involuntary leap. The pair land heavily on the stage trap-door and vanish from sight. A second later darkness billows up out of the trap-door and Olaaf punches a hole out of the night cloud as he flies back to the safety of Cid's protection.
Mumbles arrives at Chevalier's side. He waves to Olaaf,
"Wotcha cock!"
Then introducing himself to the Duke - who may have forgotten him after his disgraceful drinking bout last time they met - Mumbles asks,
"So who do you want me to put down for you first then yer grace?"
Before Chevalier can answer Mumbles lets out a howl of pain and stares at his leg in amazement as blood floods out through the joints of his platemail. The ever-cunning Mace has deduced that one can have no better 'fetish' for a 'voodoo' spell than a duplicate and has worked the appropriate magic. His living axe has just bitten deeply into the strawberry flavoured duplicate and the damage is perfectly mirrored on the original.
Mace begins to beat a retreat to the privies but it is a call of nature that he is destined never to make. The combined efforts of Mumbles and Alberich are too much for him, the North Eastern warrior team lay him low, a terrible blow from Alberich's axe slicing into Mace's neck. The two companions, one real one not, stand panting over the corpse. Mace was anything but a pushover and whilst Mumble's bears only one serious injury Alberich is only standing because of the legendary powers of endurance long associated with his race.
Thus far Bilbo Pond has had a rather quiet brawl. This state of affairs ends abruptly with the arrival of Just on the wing. The Dianodian quickly settles the question of whether Bilbo will for the second time be the last man standing. Expertly and with a minimum of fuss he smashes the poor fellow's head open against the wall. Just then methodically strips the corpse of four intricate amulets which he tosses over to Olaaf.
Whilst all this mayhem has been filling the main hall a personal grudge has been being settled in the privies!
Mumbles notices Sir Weapon advancing on him and greets him formally, pointing to the trail of blood leading to the farthest stall. Sir Weapon simply warns Mumbles to stay out of it and moves past him, drawing his huge two-handed sword as he does so. The great hero of Corgul then enters single combat... with a hatstand, viciously cutting down the innocent furnishing and committing criminal damage on several cloaks as he carves on through the cloak-rack. Leaving the sword hanging in mid air Sir Weapon then arms himself with two suitable pieces of wood and turns back to follow the blood trail, humming a little curse-ditty to himself as he goes.
Mumbles for his part decides the only way to win his argument with the sartorially ignorant cloakroom attendant is to cast a charm spell upon him. This done Mumbles quickly persuades the man to his own point of view that his tatty cloak is in fact a fine garment which ranks up there with the very best items modelled by such local clothes horses as Lord Namibsi and the court mage Rhialto.
Sir Andre is clearly busy in the privy for Sir Weapon reaches the door without incident. Here the Corgulian pauses and remembering his unhorsing in the royal tourney he turns to look back at Mumbles - clearly guilty of outrageous good luck on that occasion. Mouthing the words of a much abused Moranan spell Sir Weapon summons a deluge of lurid pink blancmange to gush forth from nowhere, drenching Mumbles, the duplicate he's just summoned and the attendant. At this point the vampire bursts through the door and belts Sir Weapon 'upside the head'. A vicious brawl ensues with bone-cracking punches snapping out in rapid succession. Sir Weapon uses his improvised clubs, an advantage he needs given that his foe is plate armoured! The vampire aims for the face, having skinned his knuckles to the bone on Sir Weapon's enchanted chainmail. It soon transpires that boxing is not an efficient means of mutual destruction and the pair become locked in a clinch where each strains to strangle the other. It is at this point that the real Sir Andre flies out of the stall and crowns Sir Weapon with the toilet bowl that he has ripped from the ground. Sir Weapon reacts quickly enough to call out a muffled spell of 'single combat' ensuring that the duplicate can no longer attack him - though equally nobody can come to his aid.
The vampire knight is just about to start slapping the toilet-helmed Corgulian around when suddenly the privy vomits forth the most vile fountain of ancient sewage. Somebody (probably a Moranan since their enchantments best maintain a grip on the bowels of the earth) has sent an elemental to back-up the sewers and as one the three privies explode with foulness, a brown tidal wave that floors both knights and the redundant duplicate.
Sir Weapon manages to get the bowl off his head just as Sir Andre clears his own eyes and the two of them set to it once more. This time the vampire's true strength comes into play and Sir Weapon finds evil hands closing inexorably around his throat. The Corgulian is already protected from evil and undead, now he extends this protection to his foe - an odd move but one that seriously limits the vampire's ability to revitalise himself with necromancy.
It soon becomes clear that despite Sir Weapon being a brilliant fighter Sir Andre is not only better but his strength is even more telling in the current wrestling match than in a sword fight. Sir Weapon responds by casting 'red hot' on the vampire's armour and wreathing his own crude wooden club in violet flame. The fire on the club burns Sir Andre like acid but the opportunity to use it is limited by the desperate need to keep those hands from his throat. Sir Andre counters the Sahmenite 'red hot' with Destu's own 'ice blue' enchantment. The ethereal flame is very dangerous to vampire-kind but Sir Andre erases the burns with necromancy, which although blunted by Sir Weapon's enchantments is still potent.
The Corgulian was ready to brawl but not ready to lose and decides that the only way for justice to prevail is to make a real fight of it. His two handed sword streaks towards the struggling pair, a black shark knifing through the air... Sir Weapon calls to Corgul and chains of purple light wrap around the vampire's arms. Two bolts of energy blasted at close range and Sir Weapon is able to twist away from the undead grip to snatch his sword from the air. The chains are short lived but still they hit the ground before vanishing as Sir Andre slips into wolf-form and shrugs them off. Backing off quickly Sir Weapon scatters grey dust from a small golden box over his foe - the vampire's growing mastery over the element of air comes into play, too late to keep him clear of the dust but quickly enough to ensure the stuff is spread around far more liberally than was first intended. Sir Andre's own sword seems to leap into his hand as he flows back into man-form and launches himself at the Corgulian. The bloody vampire's sword licks out to score across Sir Weapon's arm, the Corgulian letting a bright spark arc out from his palm before closing the hand around the hilt of his heavy sword. The spark ignites the fire-dust and the whole area whoomphs into an inferno. Sir Weapon backs off quickly his face red and blistered, his cloak smouldering. Sir Andre becomes a column of fire, the dust augmented by the fire-curse placed upon him. Heat floods from the elemental plane of fire, Sahmenite anger translated into roaring conflagration. Quick as a flash, indeed quick like a flash, the vampire dives backwards into the steaming slurry , rolling over and over in the foulness to quench the flames. Sir Weapon strides in, needing to take all the advantage he can. Chivalry is right off the list as Sir Weapon hews away at the rolling vampire with his runed sword.
Sir Andre gains his feet, kept from slipping by his power of flight, and the clash of serious swordplay rings out. The vampire is breath-takingly good. Sir Weapon's skill is amazing too and his sword is possibly the finest weapon in the hall, well suited to opening up plate-armoured foes. The vampire is better, faster, deadlier, but not by a large margin and his reserves of necromancy have been nearly drained repairing the fire damage.
{These two are so closely matched that the result is down to the roll of a dice. Rather than do that I've decided to hold a completely confidential vote from the contributors to round two - the one with the most votes will just survive the duel)