Sythyry (sythyry) wrote,

The Battle

Mirrored from Sythyry.

Grinwipey floated over Jyondre’s head. Each pair of tentacles held a club of gnarled and spiked arken-wood, and his remaining tentacle curled and knotted in rude gestures that no prime species but the aerial cephalopod Khtsoyis is capable of making for reasons of both politeness and flexibility. He lashed out once, twice, thrice, and his blows struck Jyondre’s shoulders once, twice, thrice.

Jyondre twisted and leapt, his triangular tail thwacking against an ottoman. His sabre danced in an intricate pattern, slicing through the tassles hanging from the chandelier. His dagger, at least, wound up embedded in Grinwipey, just next to one of the writhing eyestalks.

And Grinwipey retaliated in a fury of clubs hammering upon Jyondre from every direction. In a few instants, Jyondre fell.

The Aftermath

“Your win, Wipey,” said Jyondre, lying on the floor, searching his pockets for a handkerchief to stop his bleeding nose.

“Yeah, yeah. You got in a promoculous poke though,” said Grinwipey. He pulled Jyondre’s dagger out, and squeezed the wound closed with the innate Khtsoyis healing magic. “And if that chande-liar were m’aged and vicious auntie, you’d've cut off one of her tents right nicely.”

“Well, thank you kindly for agreeing to spar with me. Yerenthax wants me to learn to fight people who aren’t quite so gentle on me as she feels obliged to be since we got married.”

“It’s not married you are. You’re her boy-toy toy-foy,” said Grinwipey.

“Tofyof,” said Jyondre. “And that’s just the legal part of it. When we make the new city, she and I will get actually married.”

“Tofyof, cloth-woth, concubine, or little bit of wrong-species fluff to keep her warm at night,” said Grinwipey. “Me, I think I’m gonna find me a wife when I get back home. Hopefully a different one than the last one, I still got the bleeds in m’kidneys from our divorce proceedings.”

Jyondre flattened his ears. “Really? It’s been over a year…”

“What, do you doubt my dibblematic dictum?” said Grinwipey with a snort. “Not only was she a most imposing woman who had quite a way with a pair of flails, she hired a defense attorney — maybe he was an offense attorney? — with a flaming sword! To chase me out of my own home!”

“I’m surprised Sythyry didn’t heal you, though.”

“Oh, that. Well, zie did, but there’s some wounds that can’t be healed by salves nor sorcery. They need salsa and sambuca, salami and slivovits!”

Jyondre sat up. “And a spouse?” He took the cloth off his nose to check for blood, and clapped it back on before he spotted his tunic.

“Spouse, that’s a good word right there. A spouse, or at least a slut. But a Khtsoyis! It’s not like I haven’t had any offers here, mind you, I’ve had them out the drammo, but they’re all from twoozy little plungermongers and I’m begging your pardon for using such language.”

“I prefer being called ‘traff’ for loving outside my own species, but I’m not in a position to be too fussy about language.”

Grinwipey wiggled his free tentacle. “Is that thing done dripping blood yet? I don’t want you still bleeding when you see Yerenthax! She’d squoosh me to sporridge if I broke you for her!”

“She understands about live-weapon sparring, Wipey. She’s half hill barbarian,” said Jyondre.

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