Re: The Vivacious Deadlock: S3G6: Round Two: BJ
10-26-2011, 06:35 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by fluxus.
Ivan raised an unimpressed eyebrow as the large, hairy man before him began to shout, an unnecessary amount of spittle spraying forth from his mouth with every syllable. Although he towered over the rest of the longboat’s crewmen, his muscular chest well-defined by boiled leather, the barbarian of a man seemed nothing to Ivan if not a showman, flashy and overplaying his role. His beard was washed and elaborately interwoven with coins and beads, and every scar that marred his battle-hardened brow silently promised a tale of victory from days long past. By all accounts he seemed the perfect front man, his mouth splitting into a handsomely rugged and golden-toothed grin. Braegar he was called by his shipmates, and he sported an ego that dwarfed even the oversized bass guitar that hung proudly from his shoulder strap.
The sea spray was already beginning to form a salty crust on Ivan’s skin, the wind whipping off angry waves that were as grey and dismal as his mood. His arrival in this second “round” had been less than ideal; appearing in the lower holds of the ship atop a pile of stacked instrument cases, Ivan had made such a racket when he’d crashed to the ground that it was really no wonder he’d ended up a captive. And to make matters worse, he’d discovered with a sickening twist of his gut that the broken flute in his possession was this universe’s translation of the ridiculously expensive pen he’d stolen from CARET. Thoroughly bruised, traumatized, and forsaking whatever was left of his college fund, Ivan’s fingers twitched with frustrated energy. Still, despite everything that had happened, leaving behind the godforsaken City was something of an improvement.
Braegar pointed a calloused finger in Ivan’s direction as his voice continued to rise, women sighing and fawning over him as he spoke. “By setting foot on this ship you have named yourself an opponent of the clan Thünderwölf,” he cried. “You have but two choices! Surrender yourself now to a life of servitude aboard this vessel and have my word that no physical harm will come to you. Or-” The Viking chuckled as his crew began to hoot and cheer before he could finish. “OR- attempt to win your freedom by besting me in a trial of musical strength. But be warned: should you lose, no mercy will be given.” Ivan sighed and barely refrained from rolling his eyes as he rubbed some of the soreness from his left shoulder. After the night he’d had, a boat full of well-groomed, instrument-toting Vikings seemed less a threat to his person and more a waste of his time.
Braegar unlaced himself from a tangle of women and approached, crouching slightly so that they stood eye to eye. “What say you, little man?” he asked, ridiculous grin never fading. Ivan found it obscenely difficult to resist the urge of punching his teeth in.
“As great as it sounds to be your…er, lifelong slave,” he began after a moment’s hesitation, “I’m not really in the habit of subjugating myself to that kind of captivity. Doesn’t really suit my goals, you know?” Ivan watched in grim and silent amusement as the Viking attempted to work out whether or not he’d just been insulted. “That said… Braegar, is it? I’m gonna have to go with the latter of the two,” Ivan continued calmly. “The, uh. The trial by concert.”
Impervious to the snide comments, Braegar wasted no time. As soon as Ivan had finished speaking, the Viking sprang to his full height, booming voice now louder than ever, straw-colored beard quivering. “You heard him, boys!” he shouted with manly enthusiasm, “Bring forth the arms!” Cheers again erupted from the crewmen, this time with a flurry of activity as the longboat began to prepare for a duel.
At the same time, however, one of the crew‘s women approached Braegar, her yellow eyebrows crinkled in concern. And, to Ivan’s utter astonishment, Braegar gave her his absolute attention.
Her tone quiet and clipped, she said, “This is duel is unwise. He is little more than a boy compared to you and is not familiar with our customs.” She then gestured in Ivan’s general direction, speaking as though he could not hear her. “There will be no honor in his defeat.”
For a moment the Viking allowed his smile to fade, but then laughed a great hearty laugh and clapped the woman on the shoulder. “Nonsense, Hlif,” he said, pointing with the neck of his bass at Ivan. “Do not let his beardless chin fool you! This one has been a man grown for many a year now and chose the challenge himself. Worry not for his safety but for the honor of his intentions.”
Hlif pursed her lips and, for the first time, turned to look at Ivan. “He has no weapon,” she said, indicating his broken flute. “You would truly agree to duel an opponent in such condition?”
“You have a good eye, my Hlif,” the Viking replied. “But rest assured that my opponent here will not be unarmed.”
Then, as if on cue, a large display of instruments was wheeled before Ivan by crewmen who evidently doubled as stagehands. Braegar stood tall and proud. “Choose only one weapon, and choose wisely,” he said. Hlif spoke no more.
Ivan scanned the rack intently, studying the make and style of each instrument. He found another flute hanging next to a dangerous looking guitar, but ultimately set his broken instrument aside for a lightweight keyboard. Though he’d most recently been trained in woodwinds, the vast majority of his technical skill still was in playing the piano. He could only hope that that’d be enough to win him his life.
In the short expanse of time it took Hlif and Braegar to have their discussion, a large black stage, equipped with lights, smoke machines, and other unnecessarily flamboyant effects, had been erected on the ship’s deck. Braegar took his place on one end of the stage, Ivan the other and, after the formalities had been covered and the audience had taken their seats, the duel began.
Braegar had been too quick, Ivan would later recall.
Immediately his fingers began to fly from string to string, weaving a melody that was as powerful and full of life as he was. His bass had a deep, soulful sound to it that Ivan felt run up through his feet and into his chest. The bass line was so mighty that Ivan thought he could almost begin to see it; it took him a moment to realize that he was actually looking at a physical manifestation of the sound.
Unfortunately, in that moment‘s time Ivan found himself flat on his back, the breath knocked from his lungs, as Braegar slowed his fingers and the melody faded. The notion seemed ridiculous but was no less real- sound was being used to conjure something solid, something that was used as a weapon. The audience of Vikings roared in favor of their champion while Ivan climbed to his feet and retook his place at the keyboard.
Their battle proceeded in much the same way until Ivan got the hang of things. Three times Braegar managed to knock him to the ground, and three more times their visible melodies had clashed together in a showering of sparks.
But then Ivan knew what he had to do.
A classic song. Familiar notes seemed to flow from the keyboard of their own accord, a rhythm as fast and frantic as Ivan felt. He’d learned the tune by ear so long ago that he was surprised he still remembered it. So caught up was he in playing that he failed to notice the silence of the audience as his opponent’s own song was drowned out. His melody manifested itself into a force like lightning, and soon Braegar could do nothing but harmonize. For what seemed an eternity they were locked in a state of musical synchronization- until one of Braegar’s strings broke. The great Viking fell to his knees- and with one final chord Ivan assured that he‘d not rise again during their duel.
“You’ve been thunderstruck,” Ivan muttered to his fallen opponent with a small, lopsided smile; a reference to the lyrics of the song he‘d played. AC/DC had never yet let him down, and he did so love the cheese factor. The Viking musician bowed his head, his smile gone.
Whether due to skill, luck, or a combination of the two, Ivan had won the duel.
The hush that enshrouded the longboat then was nearly as visible as their warring melodies had been. Ivan had earned his freedom; the battle was done. And one of the great musicians of the Thünderwölf clan had been defeated by an outsider. Ivan allowed himself another small smile. If all battles were fought with music in this land then he’d be able to adjust rather quickly.
“What is your name?” Braegar still knelt where he’d fallen, but his expression, while still one of shock, had regained much of its former vibrancy.
Ivan held out his hand and helped the Viking to his feet. “Ivan Norst,” he said by way of introduction.
“And you are not from this land?” Braegar looked more curious than angry.
Ivan shook his head. “No.”
“I thought not. You play the instruments of Santa Nada in the fashion of one of us… and I underestimated you.” He nodded. “You have earned your freedom and the name Ivangar.” He gestured to the vast display of instruments. “Any weapon you desire you shall have.”
Ivan smiled wanly and ran his palm across the smooth plastic of his keyboard. “Thank you for your generosity,” he said. And then the audience began to cheer.
The solemn mood dissipated as quickly as it had set in, and, rather than servitude, Ivan was offered a place of honor aboard Braegar’s ship. However, after careful deliberation, he asked instead to be taken as close to Santa Nada as they were willing to go. When they arrived, Braegar, Hlif, and a guard of three others led him ashore.
“You‘re sure you wish to enter Santa Nada? “ Braegar asked as Ivan slung the keyboard across his back with a strap. “That city is cruel and plays the music of cowards.”
Ivan nodded, wincing slightly as he adjusted the instrument where it hung from his badly bruised back. “Yes. There’s someone I need to find.”
Braegar clapped him on the shoulder then, utterly oblivious to Ivan‘s injuries. “Then go now- with the blessings of all the Gods of the Thünderwölf - and know that you will always have a place at my table, young Ivangar.”
After offering his thanks, they parted ways and Ivan set off towards an uncertain goal, a bit in shock at what had just taken place.
What he knew for certain, however, was that the past night had forced him to rearrange his priorities. The deaths of Matic and Merrifield had hit far too close to home. He’d originally viewed being chosen by the Spectator as a means of escape from CARET- but his life was wanted both in his own universe and in this one. In coming here he’d been able to recreate himself, to learn about his skills and limitations. But he’d also left so much behind. The debate had been nagging at him since he’d survived the fall from Matic’s tower but now, as he made his way towards yet another unknown city, the direction he was to take seemed obvious.
He was going to find a way home.
Ivan raised an unimpressed eyebrow as the large, hairy man before him began to shout, an unnecessary amount of spittle spraying forth from his mouth with every syllable. Although he towered over the rest of the longboat’s crewmen, his muscular chest well-defined by boiled leather, the barbarian of a man seemed nothing to Ivan if not a showman, flashy and overplaying his role. His beard was washed and elaborately interwoven with coins and beads, and every scar that marred his battle-hardened brow silently promised a tale of victory from days long past. By all accounts he seemed the perfect front man, his mouth splitting into a handsomely rugged and golden-toothed grin. Braegar he was called by his shipmates, and he sported an ego that dwarfed even the oversized bass guitar that hung proudly from his shoulder strap.
The sea spray was already beginning to form a salty crust on Ivan’s skin, the wind whipping off angry waves that were as grey and dismal as his mood. His arrival in this second “round” had been less than ideal; appearing in the lower holds of the ship atop a pile of stacked instrument cases, Ivan had made such a racket when he’d crashed to the ground that it was really no wonder he’d ended up a captive. And to make matters worse, he’d discovered with a sickening twist of his gut that the broken flute in his possession was this universe’s translation of the ridiculously expensive pen he’d stolen from CARET. Thoroughly bruised, traumatized, and forsaking whatever was left of his college fund, Ivan’s fingers twitched with frustrated energy. Still, despite everything that had happened, leaving behind the godforsaken City was something of an improvement.
Braegar pointed a calloused finger in Ivan’s direction as his voice continued to rise, women sighing and fawning over him as he spoke. “By setting foot on this ship you have named yourself an opponent of the clan Thünderwölf,” he cried. “You have but two choices! Surrender yourself now to a life of servitude aboard this vessel and have my word that no physical harm will come to you. Or-” The Viking chuckled as his crew began to hoot and cheer before he could finish. “OR- attempt to win your freedom by besting me in a trial of musical strength. But be warned: should you lose, no mercy will be given.” Ivan sighed and barely refrained from rolling his eyes as he rubbed some of the soreness from his left shoulder. After the night he’d had, a boat full of well-groomed, instrument-toting Vikings seemed less a threat to his person and more a waste of his time.
Braegar unlaced himself from a tangle of women and approached, crouching slightly so that they stood eye to eye. “What say you, little man?” he asked, ridiculous grin never fading. Ivan found it obscenely difficult to resist the urge of punching his teeth in.
“As great as it sounds to be your…er, lifelong slave,” he began after a moment’s hesitation, “I’m not really in the habit of subjugating myself to that kind of captivity. Doesn’t really suit my goals, you know?” Ivan watched in grim and silent amusement as the Viking attempted to work out whether or not he’d just been insulted. “That said… Braegar, is it? I’m gonna have to go with the latter of the two,” Ivan continued calmly. “The, uh. The trial by concert.”
Impervious to the snide comments, Braegar wasted no time. As soon as Ivan had finished speaking, the Viking sprang to his full height, booming voice now louder than ever, straw-colored beard quivering. “You heard him, boys!” he shouted with manly enthusiasm, “Bring forth the arms!” Cheers again erupted from the crewmen, this time with a flurry of activity as the longboat began to prepare for a duel.
At the same time, however, one of the crew‘s women approached Braegar, her yellow eyebrows crinkled in concern. And, to Ivan’s utter astonishment, Braegar gave her his absolute attention.
Her tone quiet and clipped, she said, “This is duel is unwise. He is little more than a boy compared to you and is not familiar with our customs.” She then gestured in Ivan’s general direction, speaking as though he could not hear her. “There will be no honor in his defeat.”
For a moment the Viking allowed his smile to fade, but then laughed a great hearty laugh and clapped the woman on the shoulder. “Nonsense, Hlif,” he said, pointing with the neck of his bass at Ivan. “Do not let his beardless chin fool you! This one has been a man grown for many a year now and chose the challenge himself. Worry not for his safety but for the honor of his intentions.”
Hlif pursed her lips and, for the first time, turned to look at Ivan. “He has no weapon,” she said, indicating his broken flute. “You would truly agree to duel an opponent in such condition?”
“You have a good eye, my Hlif,” the Viking replied. “But rest assured that my opponent here will not be unarmed.”
Then, as if on cue, a large display of instruments was wheeled before Ivan by crewmen who evidently doubled as stagehands. Braegar stood tall and proud. “Choose only one weapon, and choose wisely,” he said. Hlif spoke no more.
Ivan scanned the rack intently, studying the make and style of each instrument. He found another flute hanging next to a dangerous looking guitar, but ultimately set his broken instrument aside for a lightweight keyboard. Though he’d most recently been trained in woodwinds, the vast majority of his technical skill still was in playing the piano. He could only hope that that’d be enough to win him his life.
In the short expanse of time it took Hlif and Braegar to have their discussion, a large black stage, equipped with lights, smoke machines, and other unnecessarily flamboyant effects, had been erected on the ship’s deck. Braegar took his place on one end of the stage, Ivan the other and, after the formalities had been covered and the audience had taken their seats, the duel began.
Braegar had been too quick, Ivan would later recall.
Immediately his fingers began to fly from string to string, weaving a melody that was as powerful and full of life as he was. His bass had a deep, soulful sound to it that Ivan felt run up through his feet and into his chest. The bass line was so mighty that Ivan thought he could almost begin to see it; it took him a moment to realize that he was actually looking at a physical manifestation of the sound.
Unfortunately, in that moment‘s time Ivan found himself flat on his back, the breath knocked from his lungs, as Braegar slowed his fingers and the melody faded. The notion seemed ridiculous but was no less real- sound was being used to conjure something solid, something that was used as a weapon. The audience of Vikings roared in favor of their champion while Ivan climbed to his feet and retook his place at the keyboard.
Their battle proceeded in much the same way until Ivan got the hang of things. Three times Braegar managed to knock him to the ground, and three more times their visible melodies had clashed together in a showering of sparks.
But then Ivan knew what he had to do.
A classic song. Familiar notes seemed to flow from the keyboard of their own accord, a rhythm as fast and frantic as Ivan felt. He’d learned the tune by ear so long ago that he was surprised he still remembered it. So caught up was he in playing that he failed to notice the silence of the audience as his opponent’s own song was drowned out. His melody manifested itself into a force like lightning, and soon Braegar could do nothing but harmonize. For what seemed an eternity they were locked in a state of musical synchronization- until one of Braegar’s strings broke. The great Viking fell to his knees- and with one final chord Ivan assured that he‘d not rise again during their duel.
“You’ve been thunderstruck,” Ivan muttered to his fallen opponent with a small, lopsided smile; a reference to the lyrics of the song he‘d played. AC/DC had never yet let him down, and he did so love the cheese factor. The Viking musician bowed his head, his smile gone.
Whether due to skill, luck, or a combination of the two, Ivan had won the duel.
The hush that enshrouded the longboat then was nearly as visible as their warring melodies had been. Ivan had earned his freedom; the battle was done. And one of the great musicians of the Thünderwölf clan had been defeated by an outsider. Ivan allowed himself another small smile. If all battles were fought with music in this land then he’d be able to adjust rather quickly.
“What is your name?” Braegar still knelt where he’d fallen, but his expression, while still one of shock, had regained much of its former vibrancy.
Ivan held out his hand and helped the Viking to his feet. “Ivan Norst,” he said by way of introduction.
“And you are not from this land?” Braegar looked more curious than angry.
Ivan shook his head. “No.”
“I thought not. You play the instruments of Santa Nada in the fashion of one of us… and I underestimated you.” He nodded. “You have earned your freedom and the name Ivangar.” He gestured to the vast display of instruments. “Any weapon you desire you shall have.”
Ivan smiled wanly and ran his palm across the smooth plastic of his keyboard. “Thank you for your generosity,” he said. And then the audience began to cheer.
The solemn mood dissipated as quickly as it had set in, and, rather than servitude, Ivan was offered a place of honor aboard Braegar’s ship. However, after careful deliberation, he asked instead to be taken as close to Santa Nada as they were willing to go. When they arrived, Braegar, Hlif, and a guard of three others led him ashore.
“You‘re sure you wish to enter Santa Nada? “ Braegar asked as Ivan slung the keyboard across his back with a strap. “That city is cruel and plays the music of cowards.”
Ivan nodded, wincing slightly as he adjusted the instrument where it hung from his badly bruised back. “Yes. There’s someone I need to find.”
Braegar clapped him on the shoulder then, utterly oblivious to Ivan‘s injuries. “Then go now- with the blessings of all the Gods of the Thünderwölf - and know that you will always have a place at my table, young Ivangar.”
After offering his thanks, they parted ways and Ivan set off towards an uncertain goal, a bit in shock at what had just taken place.
What he knew for certain, however, was that the past night had forced him to rearrange his priorities. The deaths of Matic and Merrifield had hit far too close to home. He’d originally viewed being chosen by the Spectator as a means of escape from CARET- but his life was wanted both in his own universe and in this one. In coming here he’d been able to recreate himself, to learn about his skills and limitations. But he’d also left so much behind. The debate had been nagging at him since he’d survived the fall from Matic’s tower but now, as he made his way towards yet another unknown city, the direction he was to take seemed obvious.
He was going to find a way home.