Courage, Bandochel. Courage…. [+Blood]
"Need I remind you of the code duello, sir?" you say sternly, feeling your pulse race as you try to stay outwardly calm. "It is not meritorious to strike an unarmed man!"
"Give me the dog, then," he growls.
"A counter-proposal…" You fly into action, taking stock of the surrounding instruments. "I should prefer to give you a fight."
You grab a long, curved barrel-stave from the ground and hold it before you like a quarterstaff. There is a hole in the stave where a rubber punt should be, to hold in the ale. You see a brown bottle with a broken neck leaning against the public-house and wedge it into the opening. You have an eye for such geometries and the weapon holds fast.
Your makeshift spiked club casts an ominous shadow on the ground. "From battle born, a wraith at morn," you intone, beginning the well-known poem about happy warriors remaining on the field of war long after their demise.
Sir Jaundyce stops, glaring at you. There's enough pomposity in your posturing that neither he nor the audience can tell if you are jesting, or truly prepared to fight for your life. That's exactly as you want it, you decide, keeping the grimace fixed on your face.
Your posture goads him on, and he charges.
"Have at thee!" the drunk shouts, mace held high.
Onward