Ezekiel extends a gloved hand toward the Game-Carver and points. It’s voice sounds like a fish being descaled. “Will kill That One for free.”
Eli crosses his arms. “The opportunity stands. Any volunteers?”
Flesh-Stick: I LIKE EZEKIEL. I DON’T WANNA BEAT HER UP. SORRY.
“Ezekiel!” Eglantine calls out. “How deadly do you plan to play?”
“Will not kill.” Ezekiel chitters. “Will try not.”
There’s a light tapping sound among the crowd. It’s slow at first but by the time a proposition is shouted, the tapping hits it’s crescendo. Amelia jumps out of her seat, aggravated and glaring at everyone. "Ya lot keep actin’ like yer bleedin’ tougher than zailors but when a challenge be near, ya lot back right inta corner weepin’ like babes."
She starts walking towards the ring, a tight grip on her flask as she approaches. "So ye scared o’ tha boatman? Thar not be death in Neath lest it be wiff those ways we kno 'n ‘ere be a place ta fight naught die. So stop yer belly achin’ 'n fight! But if ye two cowardly ta even do tha-" She gives a pointed stare at Eglantine. "Than I’ll take tis fight meself."
Eglantine huffs in exasperation. “Well, pardon me for communicating regarding my preferences in a fight! Or for spending enough time around fighters who play for keeps that I like to know what I’m risking!” They gesture toward the ring. “This fight is mine, I rather think.”
“I would have you know, the Boatman is quite a threat to men like I, who seek a replacement from what is now locked to all of us. I do not wish to lose sixteen signs of my hard work during those times in this… Gallery.” The Euphemian responds to the accuser. “But, yes. This is not my fight, but our mysterious friend’s.” Their masked face turns to Eglantine, twin irrigo circles shining in their accessory’s dark colours. “10 Echoes on the Champion’s Defeat. I feel that the newcomer knows what they’re doing.”
“I don get tha fear any ya lot haff. But if’n ya plan ta fight than feckin’ act like it,” she scoffs at Eglantine in turn. “Ya been speakin’ like ya haff tha gulls o’ tha gods on yer side. But ya haff yet ta prove it. So PROVE it now.” She steps away from the ring.
Eglantine looks away from Amelia, their expression becoming blank, trying to set her words aside. It will do no good to be goaded.
…Eglantine fails, and looks back. “I’m sure the ring will hold three as readily as two. If you want to make this interesting, No teams, just all three of us against each other.”
Elias crosses his arms. “There is a lot of stalling happening and not a lot of fighting.”
Flesh-Stick: WILL GETTING INJURED SPEED THE…UH…DEGENERATION OF EZEKIEL’S HOST BODY?
Amelia doesn’t bother to entertain Eglantine’s proposition. They’ve held themselves before as being posh, now they seem like a child whimpering out for blood. If there wasn’t a betting pool in play, she’d most likely toss them straight into the ring and dust her hands of the matter. But she doesn’t, she narrows her eyes at everyone around her. Only once softening at Flesh Stick’s question.
"Ai suppose tha would be a bit o’ an issue. Would be one fing ta naught fear death or try ta save face. But somefing tha hinders yer body? Or… uh… progress as tha one wiff ta mask said ‘fore. Tha be somefing worth addressin’."
“No. Consumption is not sped by damage.” Ezekiel sneers and then lets out a roar. The entire area smells of iron.
“You’d better get in there.” Eli urges. “Or else surrender. It’s getting cranky.”
Eglantine shrugs. “After this, we talk about who shoved a live rat up your rump, because it wasn’t me,” they snap at Amelia, tired of her attitude.
Dismissing her entirely from the equation, they enter the ring, stretching and drawing a pair of knives.
There’s a second where Amelia sniffs the air before laughing in Eglantine’s direction. "Wiff you I fought ye be describing yerself. But lest ye don bring yer top game than I don wanta 'ear it." She waves them off before getting back to the crowd. That is not without guzzling down the contents of her flask first.
Ezekiel moves to attack but stops when Elias tuts. “Wait a moment.”
Eli clears his throat. “Eglantine versus Ezekiel the Consumed. Eglantine is free to employ any melee weapon he wishes, while Ezekiel will be restricted to it’s hands. Okay, you can go now. SIC EM, EZ!”
Ezekiel sinks down low to the ground in a way no human with an intact spine ever could and advances on Eglantine fast, like a spider, trying to pull their legs out from under them.
Well, that’s unorthodox. And uncomfortably arachnid-like. Eglantine’s reminded of dealing with sorrow-spiders, but Ezekiel is rather bigger, and probably won’t turn to goo if stomped on. Still, Ezekiel has only the four limbs, not eight, so that’s something. And while in this humanish form, there have to be some limitations…
Eglantine skips to one side and bolts past Ezekiel. Room. They need room to watch Ezekiel, assess its movements, find weaknesses, and that means keeping their distance.
Distance and Ezekiel? When there is one, there isn’t the other. Eglantine manages to clear the first advance, but The Corpse Puppeteer continues to try to mush them into the walls. Leading first with a formidable-looking right hook.
Eglantine’s muttered epithet is neither ladylike nor gentlemanly, but entirely appropriate for the situation, as they back up, discovering with alarm just how damned fast Ezekiel is.
But that can be used. They shift, light-footed and quick as a cat, and hold up a knife, bracing themself as they do their very best to allow Ezekiel’s punch to impale itself on the blade. Just a matter of careful aim, surely.
The bladework was excellent and would have sent anyone sprawling into the dirt with a ruined hand. The tip of the blade slides easily in between what you assume must be the sixth and seventh knuckles (wait, what?).
But that doesn’t slow the punch down, it carries through and embeds the knife down to the blade. When the cut was made, the skin felt easy to pare, but there was something else beneath other than the bone.
The hook lost no speed and is still in danger of hitting Eglantine on the follow-through