*plop-suck – plop-suck – plop-suck*
The other fighters in the training facilities of the tournament are already used to the puzzling and rather disgusting sounds that announce the proximity of one of their contestants, the leech man Sweetteeth.
The door to the state-of-the-art complex – furnished with finely crafted armor stands, weapon racks, and weapon trap parcourse of varying difficulty – opens, and through the doorframe he loops on his front and hind suckers, his manager in toe. *plop-suck – plop-suck – plop-suck*
His slightly pulsating, dark figure is clad in black bronze armor, which seems almost dulled against the leech man’s glistening body. For the lack of actual hands, his gauntlets are dangling from his wrigglers, bound tight with rope, as do his greaves, which pad against his body with each of his jerked forward movements. Not attached intentionally – more like stuck – are the pair of silken pants that hang around his neck and his shoulders, almost like a ruff or a short cloak, his head poking through a hole in the middle, where once a pair of bat cheeks might have rested comfortably.
*plop-suck – plop-suck – plop -*
Sweetteeth comes to a hold not far from a pair of people apparently in deep and concentrated conversation. One of the figures is a roach the size of a man, holding a shining spear and a shield to his side – none other than Diago Pastor the 53rd, Sweetteeth’s next opponent. Diago nods earnestly while the other figure, his manager, mimes franticly stabbing someone. Sweetteeth looks over, unmoving, his mouth hole agape, for a solid few minutes – long enough for the roach man to glance over and notice something that almost looks like a fluffy but gnawed at skunk-ear hanging on a thin chain around the leech man’s neck.
Sweetteeth finally sets himself in motion again towards one of the trap parcourse with another few, now oddly wet sounding, *suck-plop*’s. Just another few minutes pass until Diago notices the leech man chose the spear trap parcourse, deftly dodging one trap after another, wriggling and looping forward each time one of the spears contracts, and finally on the last, deadly looking trap composed of multiple massive steel spears interlocking every few seconds, Sweetteeth hesitates for a moment, and with a quick movement of his entire body jumps forward. It almost seems as if he chose the wrong moment, jumping right as the spears hiss out of their hidden compartments. A few of the onlookers audibly hold their breath – as the now wide-open mouth at the end of the stretched leech body crashes right into the veritable wall of spears with a splintering crush.
“Oi! No breakin’ the equipment, Wormy!” yells an arena guard at the complex’s entrance.
Sweetteeth pays no mind to the agitated guard and instead turns around towards Diago, his mouth hole still wide open, giving view of his multiple rows of teeth. Splintered spears lie scattered around him. One of his wrigglers stretches out to one of the bent spear tips on the ground, picks it up and tucks it away under his breastplate.
“Great my boy, now once again with the axe traps! And mind the splinters, don't want any stuck in your hind-sucker, do we...” says his manager, patting Sweetteeth on the other wriggler, apparently oblivious to the tension in the room.
Author
Topic: Dwarf Fortress Gladiator Tournament VIII (Read 51726 times)