In the Flesh

"Okay, now that sounds alright, fo' sure, fo' sure. A pimp can fully admit." Says the pimp who has the unenviable position of having to give his speech after Niall. "But when it comes to revitalizin' the local economy, no one is better than yours truly!"

Sir Pimpington is handed the microphone by Niall, who smiles and scratches his neck after doing so. Everyone is eager to see how the pimp lord will follow up that lofty speech, myself included.

"Pardon me. Is this seat taken?" A man says to my left.

I don't so much as glance at him, telling him, "No. By all means." a bit sarcastically as my eyes are glued on the larger-than-life man at the podium.

"How's he going to follow up Mr. Hawkins, Master...?" Meri wonders aloud.

"Poorly, I imagine." I scratch my chin and think back to Niall's words. It's not like I suddenly forgive him for our sordid personal history, but even I have to admit he did a hell of an excellent job attempting to mend that bridge of ours that he burned.

"It was a fairly good speech, I'll admit." The man on my left says. "Dangerous. But a good speech nonetheless."

"Dangerous, how... so...?" Meri looks at our guest, and she drops her jaw, her face turning the color of chalk. She reaches for my sleeve to tug on it several times. "M-M-M-MASTER...?!"

I look to my left as well and see an absurd sight. This man is not what I'd call tall. I'd prefer the adjective 'spindly'. Instead, he's unnaturally tall and skinny to the point where he seems like a skeleton. He has to be at least ten feet tall, made even taller by his lengthy black top hat.

He wears a classy, expensive-looking black suit that must have been completely tailored to his excessive needs. Rather than being ratty, covered in grime, or riddled with holes like most Dewhurstian fashion, this absurdly tall man looks like he's never even heard the definition of dirt. His fancy suit is spotless, and between his gloved hands is an extremely elegant scepter.

Most troubling of all is the fact that our guest apparently lacks a face.

I lose all my formality and politeness as I gape at the gangly gentleman before me. "What in the absolute name of fuck-"

"My apologies, I do tend to have that effect on people." He sighs somehow without lips or a mouth. The man pulls the brim of his top hat downwards to hide a bit more of his creepy non-face beneath the shadow.

"That's... quite alright." I cough awkwardly into my fist and try to look away and pretend this was normal.

"For the lady." The tall stranger reaches into his coat pocket and produces a single red flower. He extends his long, stick-like arm out in front of my face and offers it to Meri.

"Eh...?" It takes Meri a moment to process this surreal situation but eventually, she declines the offering. "N-No, thank you. You're um... too kind."

"A pity." The flower wilts away into nothing before our eyes, causing Meri to laugh uncomfortably. A shallow, low-level illusion, most likely. I can feel the tiniest bit of mana pressure in the air, but it's gone just as soon as I sense it.

"Y'ALL MOTHERFUCKAS IN THE BACK GONNA LET A PIMP SPEAK HIS DAMN MIND OR WHAT?" Sir Pimpington screeches into the microphone, pointing at us with his pimp cane.

Our strange friend waves at Sir Pimpington calmly with one hand, and to my astonishment, the boisterous mayoral candidate shrinks back. "Aw shit, sorry, Bossman! Didn't know that was you. We good, you gangly sonnuva bitch?"

Boss... man? But...

"All good." The Duke of Dewhurst flashes an ok sign with his fingers at the man with the microphone. I begin to break out into a cold sweat as soon as I pick up on this implication. Meri does too, only she stands up, and the jewel on her buckler glows faintly red.

Her sword whips out from under the shield like a much larger version of one of those hidden blades used for assassination, and she timidly raises it to attack the tall, thin crime lord.

"Now now," He begins to speak with an amused, almost friendly tone. "I'm not here to fight. I'm only here to see how the horses I have in this race fare. Call your little lover off."

"...Meri. Sit."

"M-Master... we can end this right now if... if I just...!!"

"I wouldn't recommend that." The Duke shakes his head disapprovingly. "I didn't come here alone. You just can't see the help. Should I ask Fleetfoot to reveal themself? Or perhaps Vulkir, my personal bodyguard. I don't believe you've met."

I turn and face the platform to see Niall worryingly stare at me. The retired adventurer sweats nervously and looks back and forth between the Duke and me. I can see it in his eyes that he wants to come and help, but I shake my head and tell him not to. "Sit down, Meri."

Meri struggles with her desire to cut down our enemy until finally, she sits down at my right side once again, but she noticeably does not retract her buckler's sword. Thank the Gods I didn't come to the debate with Sam... this altercation would have ended significantly differently if the rowdy Princess were here.

What can I do in this situation...? We're surrounded on all sides, we're in public, and the enemy just blatantly takes the seat next to mine. I didn't expect this move.

As far as I can guess, my only option is to continue watching the ongoing political statements with Meri and the fucking Duke of Dewhurst by my side.

"Right, so. Not sure what the fuck that was about," Raepface clears his throat in a loud, exaggerated manner before looking to Sir Pimpington. "But I believe you were supposed to tell us what sort of platform you're running on?"

"Bitch, what in the fuck is a platform, and why would I be running on it?" The pimp rears back his hand as if he were about to slap the moderator like he were one of his bitches, but decides against it. "Oh yea, you just asking what I'mma do if I become mayor, right?"

"That is indeed the question." Raepface confirms.

"Shit, dude, we gon' be here all day. I had my bitches write a song about it, even! SONGWRITING BITCH! TOSS ME DAT LYRICAL MASTERPIECE!"

One of his many hoes in the audience, a slutty looking red-headed halfling, stands up and says, "I FORGOT IT, MY LORD!"

"Dumbass furry-footed HOE!" Sir Pimpington groans and shakes his head. "Why in the fuck does the songwriting bitch have to go and be the masochistic bitch at the same time? Stupid skank be forgetting shit left and right just, so I whoop her ass, ya dig!?"

The pimp sighs, and several audience members nod their heads as if they understand this exact problem.

"Regardless, I was trying to say what I wanted to do to this town earlier. Many of you mothafuckas already happen to be patrons of my many Hoehouses, do you not?" He raises his hands, and the crowd goes wild with reverie as they celebrate prostitution. "Now that's what we talkin' bout, YEAH BABY! There IS a problem in Dewhurst, though, fo' sure. I can't ignore that. And what might that problem be? It's simple. The problem is that there are still buildings in this town where women will refuse to have sex with you!"

An immense wave of booing erupts.

"I KNOW, RIGHT! IF YOU VOTE FOR ME, I'LL WORK ON THAT SHIT! Hell, I already AM, BITCHES! Thanks to my wonderful business relationship with the Shatterbrew clan, I've already begun work on constructing fifteen new Hoehouses! Do you know what this means...? YES! THERE IS NOW A BROTHEL ON EVERY. SINGLE. STREET OF DEWHURST!" Sir Pimpington throws his arms out and smiles to the crowd, revealing a shimmering golden set of teeth that sparkle amidst the dreary Dewhurstian light. "But we CAN'T stop now! Naw, vote for me, and I'll keep adding to that number as soon as I can find a stable supply of bitches!"

The crowd claps for Sir Pimpington, but to my surprise, it's not as loud as it was for Niall. At long last, the pimp hands his arcane tech microphone off to the Crystal Sage, who is tweaking in anticipation... I think. He might just be tweaking in general.

"Well, he knows how to put on a show if nothing else. I'm sorry that my misogynistic subordinate's antics have caused you trouble, for what it's worth. I expect your true clash with him has yet to occur, though. Best be prepared for that." The Duke pats me on the shoulder in a reassuring, friendly manner, and I struggle to keep my mind grounded.

Don't stop thinking. If I stop thinking, I'll lose to fear. I won't let fear kill my mind just because the enemy boss is sitting right next to me, pretending he's an old friend. That's what he wants.

"Why are you really here?" I ask.

"I wasn't lying. I wanted to see how the democratic process of this backward town plays out."

"B-But why are you sitting next to us...? Are you trying to scare us...?" Meri narrows her brow, trying to look threatening as she leans over in her seat to look at the Duke better.

"Nothing of the sort- you seem to mistakenly consider me your enemy when I truthfully never was. You're a smart lad. I thought you would have figured that out."

I look up at the podium briefly to see the Crystal Sage drooling into the microphone, pausing every few seconds to twitch and convulse. I don't think he'll start his speech anytime soon, so I turn towards the Duke.

"Yes, I'm well aware that you could have ended this little back and forth of ours at any point. But it was my understanding you were giving me two months to prepare for a confrontation. So why are you showing up now then, if not to intimidate me?"

The faceless man looks towards me and tilts his head as if from disappointment. "You were supposed to get the message, but you didn't."

"Fleetfoot thought you wanted me to challenge you."

"Is that what they said?" He laughs. "I assure you that my Halfling friend doesn't speak for me. Surely you've noticed Fleetfoot is rather full of themself. Truthfully, I couldn't care less whether you fight back or not."

"Y-You're not taking back your words, are you?" The Shield Maiden does her best to stop from trembling and swallows.

"No. You can stay until the two months is up, and if you want to take that time to prepare for an assault on my forces, then you are free to do so."

I furrow my brow and look him dead on. "You strike me as an imbecile, if I'm honest."

"Pray tell." The Duke of Dewhurst leans in several inches from my face and cups his chin in his hand, looking at me with his featureless face.

Don't stop thinking.

Keep going.

"Only an incompetent villain would underestimate their opponent to the point where they feel comfortable giving them two months to prepare for the final battle."

I know he isn't physically doing so, but for some reason, I get the distinct impression that the Duke is grinning from my comment. "That's a fair argument. I can't deny the stupidity of my own actions." He laughs.

"Perhaps I'm feeling sentimental or suicidal? Maybe I want to give my true enemy one last chance to stop me by 'duking' it out with one of their pawns- if you'll forgive me for the pun."

"Your true enemy?" File that one for later.

With a weary sigh, the unnaturally tall man stands up out of his seat and clasps his white-gloved hand around the handle of his cane. He turns to leave and taps the head of his scepter with his fingertip several times, which summons a large, bulky Gnoll wearing a combination of scrappy looking armor and a butler's suit. "I'm growing dreadfully tired of this inquisition, and I'm afraid I'm fresh out of cryptic hints. Since my friend over there on the podium hasn't snapped out of his latest binge yet, my interest in continuing this conversation has dwindled to nothing. Vulkir?"

"W-Wait a minute, you can't just leave!" Meri stands up to show off her bravery, but the Gnoll snarls at her, contorting his hyena-like face, and bares his fangs. She doesn't back off, but it's clear that a slight amount of her confidence was muffled by that.

Vulkir ignores Meri's threat and hands the Duke of Dewhurst a clipboard, which he then begins to read and flip through. "Mmm. Excellent. Everything seems to be going according to plan, yes. One last word of warning before I leave you, Guild Master."

I don't dignify him with a response as he turns to face me.

"Call me an imbecile if you like, but when I told my men to leave you alone for two months... I made that call knowing full well that my subordinates are ever so unreliable at following orders."

The Duke of Dewhurst leisurely strolls into the nearest alleyway to disappear into its darkness alongside his Gnoll butler.

Simultaneously, up on the podium, the Crystal Sage snaps out of his overdose. He wipes the disgusting spittle from his lips and grips the microphone tight. "An excellent question. I will now answer it." He announces about ten minutes too late.