Scarred One: "Tch... Here comes that flamboyant cunt."
A seasoned warrior with a scar-marred face watched, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists, as an older, grizzled man in a sober retainer's livery stepped down from the driver's seat. The retainer, his face a mask of weary caution, opened the carriage door with a flourish that seemed practiced to the point of exhaustion.
The doors swung wide, and a figure emerged, descending the carriage steps with the unhurried grace of a man who owned the very ground he walked on. He was tall, clad in form-fitting black leather armour adorned with intricate golden motifs that coiled like serpents along his limbs. But it was the mask that held the crowd's gaze: a stylized lion's head, crafted as if from polished obsidian, its edges traced in a delicate rim of gold. He carried himself with an air of theatrical magnanimity, head held high as he surveyed the onlookers.
Lion: "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen...! I see you too have stopped for a much-needed lunch break."
A smattering of nervous applause and excited whispers rippled through the crowd. The masked man joined in the clapping, a slow, deliberate motion, as he began to walk towards the inn's entrance.
Scarred One: "Hey. Don't old friends get a special greeting?"
The voice was a low growl, thick with provocation. The Lion paused, his head tilting slightly.
Lion: "Hm?"
The grizzled retainer's eyes widened, his cautious demeanour curdling into visible alarm as he recognized the challenger.
Scarred One: "Beat me by the skin of your goddamn teeth, last time we met."
He strode forward, closing the distance until he was uncomfortably close, forced to crane his neck to look up at the masked figure who towered over him.
Scarred One: "But your lucky streak is about to run out."
Lion: "Apologies, good sir..."
The words were honeyed, but they dripped with a chilling poison.
Lion: "... but would that be a threat?"
The man took another two steps, their chests now almost touching.
Scarred One: "Only until it becomes a reality."
The movement was a blur. The Lion's right arm snapped back and then forward, a piston of black leather and steel. It slammed into the man's ribs with a sickening, wet crunch of splintering bone that was horribly audible in the sudden silence. The man gasped, his body folding around the point of impact.
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Lion: "I don't even know who you are."
The scarred man staggered back, clutching his side, his face contorting in a mask of agony and fury as he fumbled for the hilt of the sword at his side.
Scarred One: "AGH... SPINELESS COWARD!"
The Lion stood perfectly still, his right arm still extended. The limb ended not in a hand, but in a heavy, cast-iron gauntlet, bolted directly to the stump of his forearm.
Lion: "Shut the fuck up."
Though his opponent was now armed, the Lion made no move to draw his own weapon. The grizzled retainer by the carriage started forward, his hand on his own sword, but the Lion gave a subtle, dismissive shake of his head.
Lion: "I suppose our last encounter must've been rather deceiving."
He advanced, his steps measured and fearless.
Lion: "Either that, or you're simply delusional."
The man swung his sword, a wild, desperate arc of steel. The Lion shifted his weight, a simple pivot, the blade hissing past his ear.
Scarred One: "DIE, YOU SPOILED BASTARD!"
Another swing, another miss. The Lion's movements were an elegant economy of motion, a kata of subtle dodges that made the other man's fury look clumsy and pathetic.
Lion: "Spoiled bastard...?"
He seemed to ponder the insult, his head tilted in thought even as another blow sliced harmlessly through the air where he'd been a second before.
Lion: "Is that truly the impression I give off these days...?"
Seeing the momentary lapse, the man lashed out with a vicious kick. His boot connected squarely with the Lion's torso, sending him staggering back a step.
Scarred One: "KEEP TALKING. GOT YOU NOW!"
He lunged, his blade plunging straight for his enemy's heart. The sword stopped dead, its point caught in the unyielding grip of the cast-iron gauntlet with a high-pitched shriek of tortured steel.
Lion: "I must apologize."
The scarred man roared, grabbing his weapon with both hands, muscles straining as he tried to force the blade through. The metal groaned, but the masked man did not budge an inch.
Lion: "Perhaps I really am becoming a spoiled bastard... once again."
With a sudden, contemptuous shove, the Lion pushed the blade back. The sword, unable to withstand the pressure, snapped, the top half of the blade spinning away to clatter on the cobblestones. The man stumbled back, dazed, holding the broken hilt.
Lion: "Can you blame me, though?"
He stood tall, unfastening the heavy gauntlet from his stump. It fell to the ground with a massive, earth-shaking thud, leaving a deep impression in the hard-packed dirt. It was not a gauntlet; it was a solid cudgel of iron.
Lion: "I was born one, after all."
He spread his arms wide in a gesture of open invitation.
Lion: "And yet, spoiled or not... the gulf of skill between you and I is undeniably vast."
Scarred One: "Only gulf there'll be is when I carve your heart out from your chest...!"
He shifted his grip, holding the broken sword like a dagger, its jagged edge glinting in the sun.
Scarred One: "Now quit running your mouth and fight me like a man!"
A smile curved the Lion's lower lip, visible beneath the mask. He strode forward, his torso twisting slightly, his single hand raised in a classic duelist's stance.
Scarred One: "FUCKER! Draw your weapon already!"
Lion: "I thought we were fighting like men...!"
The warrior, patience utterly incinerated, lunged. He swung the broken blade in a rapid slash. The Lion leaned, the jagged metal missing his ribs by a hair's breadth, and countered with a hard, precise jab of his own knuckles into the man's already broken ribs. There was no crunch this time, only a choked grunt of agony.
Scarred One: "HNGH...!"
He flinched, a fatal error. As his weapon arm lowered, the Lion hooked the man's wrist in the crook of his elbow and swept his legs out from under him. He hit the ground hard, the air driven from his lungs.
Lion: "Motherfucker... Ruining my lunch."
He knelt, and with a single, precise, open-handed chop, crushed the man's trachea. A brief, horrifying gargle, a final twitch, and then stillness.
The Lion rose, retrieving his gauntlet. The grizzled man approached, shaking his head in disapproval.
Grizzled Man: "So, it begins already... The albatross around your neck grows fatter by the day, Sir. We really should reconsider--"
The Lion was already fastening the heavy iron back onto his arm, turning towards the carriage.
Lion: "Don't want to hear it, Pocna. We're not backing down from a tournament. Now, come on."
He climbed back into the carriage, his voice a low growl of annoyance.
Lion: "I've lost my damn appetite after this. We'll grab something to eat once we've made it to the city."
Pocna let out a long, weary sigh.
Pocna (Grizzled Man): "Yes, Sir..."
He, too, returned to the carriage. The crowd, which had watched the brutal, one-sided execution with a mixture of shock and morbid fascination, began to break apart, their fearful whispers quickly turning to excited gossip as they filed into the inn, eager to discuss the spectacle over a pint of ale.