Hieron winces from the brutal assault he just witnessed. St-Patrick-Hartbrooke obviously felt that one.
The Cad of a Geometer was wobbling more as well though.
Producing his snuff box, Hieron takes a double pinch to help calm his nerves. As much as he may have regretted not being present when Karekin stood up to be St-Patrick-Hartbrooke’s second, he was glad he was not in that role right now.
He downed his scotch and stands,
“Yes. Please. This matter has been settled. No more blood need be spilled in this manner”
Well, now. This won’t do at all. This, you see, this is why duels should not be contested publicly. A second privately trying to convince their Principal that the debt of honour is satisfied is one thing. Publicly trying to turn the crowd against the duel, and, by extension, the challenger — the injured party! — on the other hand, was simply unacceptable.
No. He had considered offering a more merciful resignation to <pleasing hum>, but that option is now clearly off the table.
St-Patrick-Hartbrooke turns to the crowd and motions for silence, which is granted. Softly, so that the farthest spectators need to strain to hear, he states, “I am, of course, willing to let this debt of honour be reconciled…” He waits for the inevitable collective intake of breath and is not disappointed, “…under the same conditions I have always been. My opponent has profited off of the deaths of his fellow Weatherbeans, and used my good name to do it. Until that profit has been forfeited and an apology made, I will not consider the debt of honour paid.”
The Space Griffin shakes his head sadly. “Since my opponent still appears to value money more than honour, I am afraid, dear friends, that I must see this through to its end, whatever that may be.”
With one last sip of water, St-Patrick-Hartbrooke takes his position for the final round.
She’s horified by the bloody visage of St-Patrick-Hartbrooke @nimelennar, and unnerved by the ambient noise leaking uncontrollably from the vicinity of <pleasing hum> @manwich, yet she cannot bring herself to divert her attention.
This is everything she loves about Weatherby’s Polite Society, distilled to its rarified, visceral essence: the pageantry of tradition, the devotion to honour, and that rare occasion when the true stakes of the contest are not sublimated in convention and manners.
The Sea Peas may occupy their allotted days with contentment, she is sure, but they can never truly live like one of the True Citezenry – they simply don’t have as much to lose (or gain!).
She retrieves a small ceramic pot from her reticule, then smears a dollop of its contents, an opalescent blue cream, on the rim of her glass of Scooch. She sips decorously, waiting for the next and final round of the duel. Fans whir deep inside her life-support mechanisms, and the ghostly aroma of musk and nightshade emanates from her vents.
"As much as I might wish that this dispute be over, it seems both participants are sanguine enough to bring this affair to its conclusion. To our Principals and seconds, I encourage you to take up your positions a final time.”
[After waiting for the four to take their places, the old moose continues]
“For the final salvo, the challenger, Mr. St-Patrick-Hartbrooke has chosen On Eagles Wings, while the challenged has chosen Face Down in the Gutter. On my mark, you may perform.”
St-Patrick-Hartbrooke lets the hymn resound, and knows, sadly, that this should be enough to finish it. He closes his eyes for the coda, letting the end of the song become a prayer for the soul that is about to leave this world, and opens them… to see his opponent not dead.
The Space Griffin gestures to the Doctor, who immediately goes to help <pleasing hum>.
“Enough. The duel is over, the debt is paid. As I let that song fly, I knew it to be a fatal blow, but if the Lord’s Word does not kill my opponent, it is because the Lord does not wish him dead.”
He begins stripping off the haptic suit, the previously-pristine duelling costume underneath now slashed and bloodied by the contest.
A visibly shaken Karekin steps forward to aid decommissioning the haptic suit.
Karekin makes a hard glance to his right; several of St-Patrick-Hartbrooke’s footman not so much enter as appear with proper clothes and fresh toilette.
Even in public, under severe stress, the St-Patrick-Hartbrooke household sets the standard.
St-Patrick-Hartbrooke, now dressed impeccably once more, strides towards the exit. If that last song had landed, he would be trying to play up the injury, hobbling towards the exit, perhaps targeting a few rivals with some pithy barbs (he had a few picked out). However, he was intact enough that it would be better to project strength rather than weakness, and, in addition to the barbs being less effective from a position of strength, he finds he isn’t in the mood for them given the result of the duel. Well, maybe one, given the odious public nature of this particular duel.
“I hope you have all been entertained. Good day to you all; I have a Ball to plan for.” He gives a little sneer to the spectators, and then pulls himself up to his full height, and, with a smoothness that suggests no injury at all (aided somewhat by an ampule of analgesic that was administered surreptitiously while he had been being dressed), he dons his hat and coat and leaves the premesis.
[You smelled death for a moment. Not the sickly sweet scent of rotting flesh, but the warm and secure redolence of decaying humus. It was familiar and comforting.]
[Now awakened, you find yourself in a karaoke duel. Not your first, but, it seems likely, your last. The *parasite* has returned to *below*, abandoning your shell when it became unstable. It’s unclear what exactly has transpired, but the looks of those surrounding you make it clear that the *parasite* has caused you to commit grave offenses. This omni-dimensional existence makes one *smell* much stronger to those that yearn to *wear* another. What was its plan? Certainly not to just die in a duel? What scheme had it advanced through these, seemingly suicidal, machinations?]
[The world folds and twists. You are losing convergence. Focus only on the microphone in front of you. The lights of the Leviathan club dim and flicker as you adjust the haptic suit’s volume/pain/damage controls to the (debug only) setting of eleven. One round of the duel yet remains; a final, solo round to ensure the debt is paid. ]
[Vocals were never your strength. The timbre and cadence of languages felt unnatural to your emoting organ. You choose a final selection:]
