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writing_shadows “You, sir, are a vile and impudent rogue; a base slime worth less than a slug or toad. Your face, it reminds me of an ass. Your manners are more becoming a pig. Sir, I demand satisfaction.”
That’s how it had started. A stream of insults, followed by a challenge. Fight me, and fight to the death. And all because I’d slept with his sister, who’d lift up her dress for anyone with so much as a Sovereign to his name. Still, at least it allowed me to set terms.
We squared away to the empty side of the Common, where we knew we wouldn’t be disturbed. I had chosen Pettifer as my second, knowing that he’d aquiese to my requests, no matter how strange. And this duel was set to be very strange indeed.
Swords, then; I, a humble Lieutenant in the 22nd Foot, against Captain the Lord Grandby, a blue-blooded bastard renowned with both sabre and rapier. When he’d issued the challenge he probably had thought I’d go for pistols. More fool him. Pettifer had thought it strange, but no more curious than my other demand: that seconds and doctor would retire out of sight once the duel commenced.
And so we all found ourselves in the chill of a Surrey morning, the wet dew dampening our shoes, to flash steel in the name of our honour. Grandby arrived by horse, dismounted with his second, took off his coat and rolled his sleeves, commenting how “I’d hate to ruin my cuffs with the blood of a lesser, don’t you know”. Then we headed to the clearing, the duel began, and the seconds went off to wait for Grandby’s inevitable, triumphant return.
Begin. Parry, parry, thrust, riposte, get stabbed straight through the chest. Blood oozes on to your shirt, Grandby ensures he’s gone straight through your body, and pulls out. Job done.
Only then the plasm knits your chest back together, you’ve taken no more than a bruise, and your opponent looks mortified. Your Geist begs you to kill him then and there. But it’s more fun to give him another go.
Thrust. Parry, step, step parry, lunge, too far, slashed across the back. Still nothing but bruises.
I let him run me through five times before I caught the blade, and, laughing, ran him through with my own. I even gave him a wink as he fell. The Cutthroat loved that; there’s nothing quite like satisfying the spirit you’re bound to.
After the deed was done I walked back, the blood on my shirt evidence enough of the epic encounter. I told the doctor I would suffer my wounds, put a brave face on it, told him to tend to Grandby. Far too late for him, mind: dead by the time he hit the ground.
Perhaps I'll see him when I call on his sister this evening.
That’s how it had started. A stream of insults, followed by a challenge. Fight me, and fight to the death. And all because I’d slept with his sister, who’d lift up her dress for anyone with so much as a Sovereign to his name. Still, at least it allowed me to set terms.
We squared away to the empty side of the Common, where we knew we wouldn’t be disturbed. I had chosen Pettifer as my second, knowing that he’d aquiese to my requests, no matter how strange. And this duel was set to be very strange indeed.
Swords, then; I, a humble Lieutenant in the 22nd Foot, against Captain the Lord Grandby, a blue-blooded bastard renowned with both sabre and rapier. When he’d issued the challenge he probably had thought I’d go for pistols. More fool him. Pettifer had thought it strange, but no more curious than my other demand: that seconds and doctor would retire out of sight once the duel commenced.
And so we all found ourselves in the chill of a Surrey morning, the wet dew dampening our shoes, to flash steel in the name of our honour. Grandby arrived by horse, dismounted with his second, took off his coat and rolled his sleeves, commenting how “I’d hate to ruin my cuffs with the blood of a lesser, don’t you know”. Then we headed to the clearing, the duel began, and the seconds went off to wait for Grandby’s inevitable, triumphant return.
Begin. Parry, parry, thrust, riposte, get stabbed straight through the chest. Blood oozes on to your shirt, Grandby ensures he’s gone straight through your body, and pulls out. Job done.
Only then the plasm knits your chest back together, you’ve taken no more than a bruise, and your opponent looks mortified. Your Geist begs you to kill him then and there. But it’s more fun to give him another go.
Thrust. Parry, step, step parry, lunge, too far, slashed across the back. Still nothing but bruises.
I let him run me through five times before I caught the blade, and, laughing, ran him through with my own. I even gave him a wink as he fell. The Cutthroat loved that; there’s nothing quite like satisfying the spirit you’re bound to.
After the deed was done I walked back, the blood on my shirt evidence enough of the epic encounter. I told the doctor I would suffer my wounds, put a brave face on it, told him to tend to Grandby. Far too late for him, mind: dead by the time he hit the ground.
Perhaps I'll see him when I call on his sister this evening.
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Date: 2011-07-20 09:47 pm (UTC)May I request 1666?
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Date: 2011-08-01 12:51 am (UTC)