KMC Forums - Bard VS Knight.

Translations will be given at the end of it.

Sun glinted off metal as a white horse burdened with an armoured figure cantered into the clearing, and stopped. The figure grumbled from within his helmet, swatting away branches and leaves that had latched on for a ride, grumbling again when one villainous leaf decided now to affix itself to the smiting gauntlet. He smote it with the other gauntlet, and then dismounted. He marched to the centre of the clearing, took off his helmet to reveal a sweaty but orderly brunette crop, and earnest blue eyes on a face that was young, square, and grim.

"Where are you, knave?" he called.

The answer was a twang from the other edge of the clearing, and an arrow whizzing over his shoulder.

"Villain!" the young man shouted, and ran toward his horse not quite as slowly or loudly as to be expected for such armouring, "Our duel hasn't started yet!"

Another arrow ricocheted off the lion-insignia shield on the guy's back, and a mercurial, rapid voice answered, "I don't know about that...looks to me like it just did!"

Another fellow stepped from the clearing; his frame wore an inch or two less, and not nearly as much metal. He wore a pieced-together leather outfit with more rigid, and studded pieces on the torso, thighs, and upper arms; and ordinarily flexible leather elsewhere. A green jacket was slung over this, with a hood hanging down. A rapier hung past one hip, a harp from the other, and in the hands he held a bow, and was reaching for a third arrow while licking his lips. The face was angular, the lips thin and wry, the eyes quick and green; and black hair hung in chaotic mess over the sides of his head.

The running knight heard a third twang, and fell to one knee. The arrow zoomed over him, then he rose and made the final strides to his horse, and grabbed a crossbow and a sleeve from one of the saddlebags. He ran around the horse, took a bolt from the sleeve, and drew back spring of the crossbow, to load the bolt in.

"You mother-loving son-of-a-whore!" the bard called, with a laugh and lilt to his voice for all the harsh words, "You know I want your horse and won't shoot it!"

"Come on foot again?" the knight called, panting. He dropped to a knee, took aim at the other fellow from between his horse's legs, and squeezed the trigger. With a spring, the released string slingshot the bolt off the shaft and into the air. The horse whinnied, and the bolt sailed through the air.

"You know it!" the bard laughed as the bolt sailed past him. "No down-pillow patronage for this bereft soul, my gilded-feather eagle..." He fired an arrow between the horse's legs.

"Save it for your next five-act..." the knight shouted back, leaning to the side as he saw the arrow released and reloading. The arrow hit the edge of his shoulder plate, and made a horrid scraping sound for one instant before deflecting and passing. The knight ran out past his horse's head, stopping a moment to fire.

The bard hurled himself sideways to avoid the bolt; the head of the arrow he had still in hand plunged into the soft dewy-grassed earth, and the shaft snapped when his weight was on it the next instant. He scrambled to regain his footing while the knight charged, letting the crossbow drop. He raised his right shoulder to grab the handle of the shield that had hung on his back and pull it off, then the left to grasp the hilt of a broadsword and draw it out of its scabbard, having it high overhead and keeping it there and shouting, "Pour Richard le Lion-Chaleureux de vieux!"

"Il suo fahter preferisce la ditta di uomini..." the bard valiantly ran - backwards - and dropped his bow, slipping the rapier out of its thin sheath with his left hand, and yanking a dagger off his belt with the right. "Gli uomini arabi."

The knight overtook the knave, and brought his sword crashing down. "Elle signifie l'invitation pour moi!"

The knave darted left, and speared his rapier tip at the knight's armpit after the sword fell to reveal it. "L'invito è il mio! lei farebbe il ram giusto esso su il suo come da tenere esso nel suo teeth."

The knight jerked his arm forward, bashing away the rapier tip, and then continued into a beheading backhand slash with his sword; the bard was already whipping the rapier up half-circle with the bash momentum and plunging the tip at the knight's throat.

The bard's parrying dagger shot up, cross body over his rapier arm. The broadsword hit it at the meeting of its little blade and guard hard enough to break the shoddy implement that was more of tool-quality than that of a weapon, but it was better than doing such a riving to his neck.

By then, the rapier tip had plunged into the unarmored throat of the French knight, and the bard drove it in deadly deep, and then hopped back.

The knight drew back, dropping his broadsword and clutching his neck in a vain attempt to stymie the blood flow.

"Oh," the bard cooed faux-sympathetically through pursed lips, "You'll only draw it out." He chuckled as the knight lunged forward to make another swing and he hopped back again out of range. His adversary's 'footwork' was now mere staggering. It was over.

"It seems I have the stage, and a monologue!" the bard laughed again, dancing around the knight's futile lunges, listening to the single gurgling attempt he made to speak, which was quickly abandoned as his mouth filled with blood and it spilled out, coating the gauntlet at his throat. "Prithee good man, have you forgotten your lines. Allow me."

The bard coughed, and spoke, but mimicking quite well the deeper, more rhythmic voice and Gaullic accent and native tongue of the knight.

Alas! So frail a flower is life
When valiantly it stands tall before the gardener
Who has come seeking a bouquet;
I thought this courage, now asasinity
Alas that in my dying hour
I should learn the secret of long life.

The bard laughed as he watched the knight cease his attempts, and stand there, shocked and stunned.

"And now," the bard slipped back into his own voice, "You will be my bouquet. Ah, don't look so put out, my good man! I'm sure you had always hoped your name should live on beyond your own years. Now it shall, perhaps I shall give it out as my own if the whim strikes me. Just think! Now it becomes more likely than ever that your fair maiden shall be screaming it within the night."

The knight gargled and lunged. The bard laughed as he sidestepped, holding out a leg and letting the knight trip over it and crash into the grass.

"Ow!" the bard hissed, and hopped back on his other leg, rubbing the knee bruised by the impact with the armoured legs of his tormented foe. "That hurt, you dolt! Hmm...I wonder if it'd fit me?"

The bard's gaze then lifted to the horse at the edge of the glen. The knight rolled over, and scowled at him.

"Oh please," the bard rolled his eyes, "You've had him less than a week. Can't be that attached."

He stepped forward, kicked the broadsword away, even though the knight was now too weak to use it. The ground on both sides of his neck was rapidly growing blood-soaked, and his arms now lung limply at his sides. The bard leaned over the knight, and looked at him mercurially.

"Don't look so sad," the bard boo-hooed with fake tears, "Don't think of this so much of a death as...put to better use. You are part of me and me part of you. There is no good without evil. There is no love without hate. There is no innocence without lust. I am the face that wears them all. I am illusion. I am darkness."

The bard threw his upper body back and shot his hands out, and then stage-bowed. He remained so doubled-over for a minute on end, and then popped up when he heard the knight's breathing stop.

The next twenty minutes were embroiled with the tedious task of shelling the knight of his armour, and then figuring out, on the fly, how to don it himself, not really even sure it'd fit (he wore his cloak underneath, to 'pad' himself to the knight's dimensions) or if he'd have the strength to move in it.

"Not bad..." he laughed, taking a few clumsy strides, "Not too bad...either way, would be the best way to carry it until I can sell it off."

It took him another five minutes just to get the shield and broadsword properly slung over his back, and then another ten to approach the horse, whistling, holding out the half-eaten apple he'd munched on while waiting to ambush the knight, and earning its 'trust', or whatever dumb animals' vague conception of such things might be. He packed the crossbow and his own weapons into the saddlebags, and fell with a crash twice, bruising his nice tight arse the second time, in his attempts to saddle up in armour.

"Hiyo, Ares!" the bard who was now masquerading as Sir Charlemange Merovingian of Rennes-le-Chateau kicked his heels into the horse's ribs, and off they went.
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(French) For Richard the Lion-Hearted of old!

(Italian) Your father prefers the company of men...Arab men.

(French) She means the invitation for me!

(Italian) Yeah, but I'll use it to get laid! You would just chivalrously ram it up your ass by clenching it in your teeth.

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~Sylvannas~
"A meal that costs my dignity is still free." ~Garland, 8-Bit Theatre