Attn: Morgause
Sagramore: Usually I only kill people I find offencive.
Lascelles: As do I.
Sagramore: If you don't mind, I'm going to move on to the stabbing part.
Lascelles: If you don't mind, I'm simply going to move on. This is a new coat.
Sagramore: *pokes with sword*
Lascelles: *shoves the sword away* Do you mind?
Sagramore: Evidently.
Lascelles: *yawns again* I have had enough of being treated like a monster. As if you lot haven't got your own share of corpses -- and it isn't as though it lasted, anyway.
Sagramore: I told you, I hold grudges.
Lascelles: *sourly* There's no virtue in that.
Sagramore: I didn't say I had any virtues.
Lascelles: Holding a grudge has nothing to do with what I said, besides.
Sagramore: It's a rough explanation for why I do intend to kill you.
Lascelles: Which wasn't exactly my point.
Sagramore: I'm not precisely interested in your point.
Lascelles: Nor I in yours, thank you very much. *eyes the sword, just in case the pun isn't, you know, POINTED enough*
Sagramore: *ignores his typist choking with laughter* I'm afraid I don't too much intend to leave you a choice.
Lascelles: Oh no? *and gun* *---and will shoot but would rather not twink itso typistly tiemz*
Sagamore: *will attempt to get the hell out of the way, but will probably get winged--on the other hand, will also attempt to get a good thrust in*
Lascelles: *and is, you know, a good shooter or whatever but isn't exactly fastest draw in the west or whatever, nor has he much experience with dealing with swords in his day and age, so ouchies*
Lascelles: --*breathless, clapping his free hand to his side, where the blood shows through the blue of his new coat* You bastard!
Sagramore: *ow ow ow* Yes, yes, flattery, thank you. *manages to get in another blow, though whether it lands is subject*
Lascelles: *a nick, then, at least, against his right arm, but he doesn't drop the gun--actually, shoots again, although with a high likelihood of missing, thanks to the blow from the sword*
Lascelles: *oh, yeah, and also speaks, hey* *contemptuously, despite the, you know, blood* How absurdly medieval.
Sagramore: *attempts to duck this time, since bleeding copiously from the shoulder is painful enough, really--this shot grazes his temple, not enough to do any damage; just to bleed humongously, as headwounds do* When I find another time to set myself to, I'll come see you again.
Lascelles: *sneers as best he can, his face pale and sweaty - that really is a fair amount of blood attempting to escape from between his fingers, and his coat is simply ruined, alas* I look forward to the visit.
Sagramore: Doubtless. *here, let him attempt to get in another good stab*
Lascelles: *hey, fuck you, man, the coat was savable until then--!* *gasps a little, pale and wan if that's not too redundant, and unloads two more bullets in rapid succession, his aim a little wild* You don't -- give up -- do you -
Sagramore: *damn it, if he were more familiar with guns he would probably be better at not getting shot by them--as he tries to get out of the way of one careering shot he steps into the path of the other, and swears, suddenly ashed-faced, when it gets him in the kneecap* Te geci! Nem, nem, I don't make it easy--Christ!
Lascelles: *smirks grimly, shifting his weight a little - leaning against a wall, then wincing at the fresh flow of blood from his side wound that that occasions* *he lifts his gun and points it at Sagramore's forehead* Christ, yes. Wasn't it he who spoke of forgiveness and turning the other cheek?
Sagramore: *definitely can't stand now, not with his knee in a million pieces, so he sinks down* So you love your enemy?
Lascelles: *coldly* I don't believe in having enemies.
Sagramore: I prefer not to have live ones, myself. *balances the sword in his hands* This was my father's.
Lascelles: *rolls his eyes* Don't let's get maudlin, please. *--but shifts his weight again, a little more poised, for all the pain it causes, ready for an awkward and difficult flight if need be-*
Sagramore: Naturally not. *balances it again, so that the tip it pointing at Lascelles. his breath is coming very painful*
Lascelles: *sighs, heavily and laboriously* *--and shoots*
Sagramore: *drives forward with the weapon at the same time*
Lascelles: *collapses in a crumpled heap of ruined blue coat, managing to let fly the last bullet at the same time*
Sagramore: *which of course gets his opponent in the jaw, in that magical tradition of horrible gun accidents where somehow some massively close to the brain part gets destroyed without immediately killing the victim*
Lascelles: *'s gun does have magical properties, okay* *also, not dead, quite, but immobile and whimpering involuntarily in his blood on the floor*
Sagramore: *oh that is IT. stabs him. repeatedly. while he is on the floor*
Lascelles: *---oh, for fuck's sake, talk about kicking a man when he's down, leave off, will you--*
Lascelles: *is out of bullets, but, goddammit, kicks -- weakly -- at Sagramore*
Sagramore: *O NO WAY. not if I'm going to have to be in bed for another six goddamn months or something--stab, stab, stab, stab*
Lascelles: *HAS MAGICAL TWINKISH GODMOD POWE--no, is just dead now* *dammit*
Sagramore: *FINALLY*
Sagamore: *stabs him once more time for good measure, and then attempts to drag himself to Morgause, as medical tiems nao*
But he's definitely not going to get very far. He's leaving a pretty thick trail of blood on the floor, and he'll be lucky if he makes it to her door--but, improbably, he does, and collapses against it. He can't even knock.
Lascelles: As do I.
Sagramore: If you don't mind, I'm going to move on to the stabbing part.
Lascelles: If you don't mind, I'm simply going to move on. This is a new coat.
Sagramore: *pokes with sword*
Lascelles: *shoves the sword away* Do you mind?
Sagramore: Evidently.
Lascelles: *yawns again* I have had enough of being treated like a monster. As if you lot haven't got your own share of corpses -- and it isn't as though it lasted, anyway.
Sagramore: I told you, I hold grudges.
Lascelles: *sourly* There's no virtue in that.
Sagramore: I didn't say I had any virtues.
Lascelles: Holding a grudge has nothing to do with what I said, besides.
Sagramore: It's a rough explanation for why I do intend to kill you.
Lascelles: Which wasn't exactly my point.
Sagramore: I'm not precisely interested in your point.
Lascelles: Nor I in yours, thank you very much. *eyes the sword, just in case the pun isn't, you know, POINTED enough*
Sagramore: *ignores his typist choking with laughter* I'm afraid I don't too much intend to leave you a choice.
Lascelles: Oh no? *and gun* *---and will shoot but would rather not twink itso typistly tiemz*
Sagamore: *will attempt to get the hell out of the way, but will probably get winged--on the other hand, will also attempt to get a good thrust in*
Lascelles: *and is, you know, a good shooter or whatever but isn't exactly fastest draw in the west or whatever, nor has he much experience with dealing with swords in his day and age, so ouchies*
Lascelles: --*breathless, clapping his free hand to his side, where the blood shows through the blue of his new coat* You bastard!
Sagramore: *ow ow ow* Yes, yes, flattery, thank you. *manages to get in another blow, though whether it lands is subject*
Lascelles: *a nick, then, at least, against his right arm, but he doesn't drop the gun--actually, shoots again, although with a high likelihood of missing, thanks to the blow from the sword*
Lascelles: *oh, yeah, and also speaks, hey* *contemptuously, despite the, you know, blood* How absurdly medieval.
Sagramore: *attempts to duck this time, since bleeding copiously from the shoulder is painful enough, really--this shot grazes his temple, not enough to do any damage; just to bleed humongously, as headwounds do* When I find another time to set myself to, I'll come see you again.
Lascelles: *sneers as best he can, his face pale and sweaty - that really is a fair amount of blood attempting to escape from between his fingers, and his coat is simply ruined, alas* I look forward to the visit.
Sagramore: Doubtless. *here, let him attempt to get in another good stab*
Lascelles: *hey, fuck you, man, the coat was savable until then--!* *gasps a little, pale and wan if that's not too redundant, and unloads two more bullets in rapid succession, his aim a little wild* You don't -- give up -- do you -
Sagramore: *damn it, if he were more familiar with guns he would probably be better at not getting shot by them--as he tries to get out of the way of one careering shot he steps into the path of the other, and swears, suddenly ashed-faced, when it gets him in the kneecap* Te geci! Nem, nem, I don't make it easy--Christ!
Lascelles: *smirks grimly, shifting his weight a little - leaning against a wall, then wincing at the fresh flow of blood from his side wound that that occasions* *he lifts his gun and points it at Sagramore's forehead* Christ, yes. Wasn't it he who spoke of forgiveness and turning the other cheek?
Sagramore: *definitely can't stand now, not with his knee in a million pieces, so he sinks down* So you love your enemy?
Lascelles: *coldly* I don't believe in having enemies.
Sagramore: I prefer not to have live ones, myself. *balances the sword in his hands* This was my father's.
Lascelles: *rolls his eyes* Don't let's get maudlin, please. *--but shifts his weight again, a little more poised, for all the pain it causes, ready for an awkward and difficult flight if need be-*
Sagramore: Naturally not. *balances it again, so that the tip it pointing at Lascelles. his breath is coming very painful*
Lascelles: *sighs, heavily and laboriously* *--and shoots*
Sagramore: *drives forward with the weapon at the same time*
Lascelles: *collapses in a crumpled heap of ruined blue coat, managing to let fly the last bullet at the same time*
Sagramore: *which of course gets his opponent in the jaw, in that magical tradition of horrible gun accidents where somehow some massively close to the brain part gets destroyed without immediately killing the victim*
Lascelles: *'s gun does have magical properties, okay* *also, not dead, quite, but immobile and whimpering involuntarily in his blood on the floor*
Sagramore: *oh that is IT. stabs him. repeatedly. while he is on the floor*
Lascelles: *---oh, for fuck's sake, talk about kicking a man when he's down, leave off, will you--*
Lascelles: *is out of bullets, but, goddammit, kicks -- weakly -- at Sagramore*
Sagramore: *O NO WAY. not if I'm going to have to be in bed for another six goddamn months or something--stab, stab, stab, stab*
Lascelles: *HAS MAGICAL TWINKISH GODMOD POWE--no, is just dead now* *dammit*
Sagramore: *FINALLY*
Sagamore: *stabs him once more time for good measure, and then attempts to drag himself to Morgause, as medical tiems nao*
But he's definitely not going to get very far. He's leaving a pretty thick trail of blood on the floor, and he'll be lucky if he makes it to her door--but, improbably, he does, and collapses against it. He can't even knock.