Capítulo 143: Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Three –Hell hath Fury like a Woman’s Scorn
The Golden Wing was a pretentious bunch of erinyes-inspired women who had set themselves up as a monastery of sorts, where they accepted orphans, exiles, and the remnants of noble families or merchants who'd lost everything in cutthroat competition, as long as they were young and female.
The Wing turned them into assassins, escorts, bodyguards, and special agents... basically ninjas with fashion sense. One had probably been purchased for 'special services' by the Benedelli heir, flaunting his power via money.
She wasn't hard to pick out, being dressed in gold and black, the colors of the Golden Wing, her attire revealing a finely-honed athletic figure, lots of golden skin, and dark eyes that were measuring Errant up in both arrogance and amusement.
Looked like a Seven. She'd been brought along to cool down his brother, who was a Five treading on Six, and talented and happy to beat people up to show it. And of course, the Benedelli could get some special instruction from an older woman...
"Come now, little brother. Your love of pugilism is one of the few accomplishments you can claim in the family. Are you truly going to let this chance to defend the honor of the Gilderalz before the eyes of our peers pass you by?"
Ah, pride, that Hellish thing thou art... "Well, yes, brother, I am. I've some conditioning to get back to." His brother's face instantly blackened. "After all, accruing some glory for the House and you does nothing for me. I imagine you even have a side wager... yes, I see you do. And I'm supposed to just stand here and be a punching bag while you walk off with the winnings if I do well." Errant held up his hand and wagged a finger at Guteriz, whose ears started to turn red.
His voice was a little irritable. "What do you want, then?" It was said in just that tone of voice, as if Errant was an unreasonable money-grubber.
Errant glanced at the Benedelli. "What's the bet?" he asked.
Slicked black hair, aloof noise, decadent air as if he was above all the masses, at least five hundred gold in an outfit he'd probably only wear once, the amused scion replied, "A thousand gold."
"Double it, my brother pays if I lose, I keep it if I win, and he can go talk about the glory of it all and how mighty our family is."
That seemed to amuse the Benedelli all the more. "Oh, what pluck!" He glanced at Guteriz, whose face was going black. Errant would get a beating, and his brother's purse would be emptied. If Errant lost, well, she was a Seven, and he was barely eleven years old. It was to be expected. He'd look like an idiot, and Errant could probably even lose on purpose just to spite him.
But Guteriz, to Errant's surprise, just nodded shortly. Privately amused, he wondered just what sort of beating Guteriz had arranged for him. The bet would be paid publicly and returned in private, no doubt.
"Well then, bring her in." A circle was instantly cleared in the room by the interested scions, and whispers and wagers began to fly. "Oh, what are the odds? I'll put five hundred gold on myself."
There was stunned silence, and then the Benedelli laughed aloud in delight. Everyone knew what was going on then, and he stated loudly, "I'll pay you five to one if you win!" he called out, utterly confident.
Oh, he was about to have a bad day. The glance the fop sent to the hot blonde with the poison nails had all sorts of meaning. She completely ignored it, coldly confident in her abilities, and even a little irritated that she be given a job as simple as this.
Errant put up his fists, and she paused, looking at him. "Are you certain you don't want to remove your... accoutrements?" she asked delicately.
"Do I need to?" Errant returned casually.
She raised her nose, staring at him. "That is not a suit of armor. It will hinder you far more then it will protect you," she said, as if instructing a fool.
"Says a woman trained for horizontal naked combat," Errant replied, rolling his eyes. "When you know something about armor, you can give me advice."
Her eyes sparked with something, tightly controlled, but he hadn't actually insulted her... because she actually was trained to kill people that way.
"It is your funeral!" she stated, and blurred into motion.
Errant turned off his Angel Weight, and stepped into the coming kick.
She was actually really surprised, and had a right to be. He moved as easily in the clumsy, overweight training garb as someone in leathers, smashing aside her kick with a heavy arm, and then directly crashing into her with an elbow before she could dance back.
With a whoosh of breath leaving her, she jumped back, folded over and needing five steps to regain her balance. There was more then a flicker of surprise in her eyes as she stared at him.
"What style is that?" she asked, and this time, her hands came up carefully, half-claws ready to rip and rend flesh, the golden nails indeed poisoned, and ready to be used.
"It's a Thunder style, made to be used against profound practitioners," Errant replied calmly, gauntlets closed into fists. "You were probably told I was a boxer." Her eyes flickered. "But, you know, there's all kinds of ways hands can be used." He hopped forwards a pace, as if he wasn't nearly three hundred pounds at the moment, and her eyes narrowed at the display of easy strength. "So, this is going to hurt. Get ready."
And completely screwing over her belief that he was going to be slow and clumsy, Errant danced in at her, and began to jab.
Well, it looked like a jab, except his arm was carrying over ten pounds of metal and leather with it, and she got to feel it all when she blocked.
He didn't really bother to block much. His base DR was high enough that she wasn't going to do anything to him, nor was he afraid of her poison. Poison resistance was a thing with Alchemists, further enhanced by his Warlock Ward, and he'd been building it faithfully.
She ripped, slapped, clutched, pulled, and kicked. She tried to throw him, but that didn't end well, as he had total control of his momentum, and if her hands stayed still for even a second, he was going to crush them. He utterly ignored everything she slammed into him, driving her across the circle as she ducked and dodged quickly, trying to circle him, and instead getting matched and forced backwards as his feet slammed to the ground with every step of his overweighted suit, and his hands didn't stop coming at her.
She couldn't take the continued impacts, and couldn't dodge them effectively. He was actually using a combined Fire and Thunder form, reducing both dodge-based and insight-based AC by 4 each, effectively taking her greater agility and monkish training and rendering it useless. It was like guided chaos, his fists filling the air in front of her tirelessly, disrupting her rhythm and battering her non-stop.
Throws and locks were contested checks, and she was a finesse fighter, so he was using Way of Valus and plowing his armor into her strikes, subtly disrupting them by shifting vulnerable spots that tiny bit and rendering her blows, which relied on great precision, useless by forcing them to hit his armor. She couldn't push or pull him at all.
And with DR 11/Silver, her base 1-6 +2 just wasn't getting anywhere.
Of course, she was a Seven. Her hands burst into hellfire, which almost made him laugh at their uselessness. She scored the leather of his training armor a little bit, strikes which could rend chainmail and set wood on fire he barely acknowledged. She did get off a burning spin kick into his side that actually hurt... and then he slapped his arm down, caught her leg and spun before she could pull back, yanking her off her feet as his fist came down on her knee.
The crack was audible, as was the gasp of pain as his backfirst overwhelmed her block and smashed across the fine bones of her face. Her head jerked back, and he grabbed her arm, jerking her forwards as his head snapped counter, and rammed his heavy helm into her forehead.
The other leg she was balancing on folded as her eyes rolled back, and he let her drop unconscious to the floor, her nose flattened against her face.
The Benedelli started to step forward, gasping, and Errant turned to face him. "I'll expect the twelve thousand five hundred gold to be delivered to my room promptly." The fop's eyes popped in outrage. "You DID say, very loudly, that you'd be paying me five to one, and the bet totaled twenty-five hundred, did it not?" Errant continued coolly.
The Benedelli went white, looking at Guteriz, whose face was flat and impassive, concealing the shock he was feeling. Of course he had said that, and to a member of the Duke's family. There was no way he was going to back out.
She should have sent Errant flying and flipping all over the place, heavy and clumsy in this suit, truly treated him like a humiliating sand bag to beat on as she wished. Instead, he had rather brutally put her down and made her look ineffective and useless.
It was a slap to Errant's brother, his fop of a friend, and the Golden Wing and her Order.
That much gold was not a small bet. You could buy some serious magic for that much money, and it likely exceeded his budget for this trip by a fair amount. There was taking out money to buy stuff, and there was losing that much for no return.
And doubtless the Belledini couldn't help feeling that Guteriz had set him up to put him in his place.
'Look, fop, this is the home of the Gilderalz family. We FIGHT here. Look what your money can do, and know your place.'
Errant didn't know which way Guteriz would spin it, but it would be to his benefit, no doubt.
Then he'd probably want Errant to give him a share of the winnings. Errant laughed to himself after receiving the Benedelli's reluctant nod, and marched out of the room, leaving the hellpriest acolytes standing by to rush forward and administer healing magic on the fallen Golden Wing.
The burn marks on his gear would generate a lot of reminder stories for a long time after this...
-------
The gold bars were on his desk, no one would dare touch them, save his father. Errant pulled out the set of mithral alloy bracers he'd had the family smith make, just waiting for a moment like this.
Tonight would be day one of Infusing the Bracers. +2 Ward/Humans would raise his DR by another +2, and his Armor by 4... while wearing no armor. While he could potentially wear armor, it was not something normally worn by any but earth or metal-aligned Warlocks, and put major restrictions on use of Wrath and Whim, since it leeched away at the power of eldritch energy. In the future, he wouldn't be using armor at all, relying on the Bracers for what protection they could give him, and the Monk training from Secondary Classing to make up for what plate armor could give him.
Word was spreading again. The family's warriors were again giving him cautious and careful looks. What the Benedelli and the Golden Wing might pull, he wasn't worried about. Regardless of anything else, he'd gained great face for his family, as even the non-Powered runt of the Gilderalz could beat down a skilled hireling, what more those who could actually fight!
It was laughable, but it was the way the world was.
Errant carefully lifted a heavy bar up onto the soles of his feet, rolled onto his back, levered it into the air, and rose into a handstand, all while under triple gravity. Any error or mistake could send it falling down onto his head, and it magnified any and all wavering in his balance and poise.
The Pattern under the rug glowed, and gold burned away as it bound with Karma into the set of Bracers made to accept the magic. Calmly, Errant kept it going as he exercised in the dark of the night.
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