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Jouster Extraordinaire

28/01/2012

Once was born a man of devotion flaming like none ever seen.
He grew up in a worn-out, brown-tinted village, one that was famous for its rather tall buildings, and its rather tall monuments, most of which are dedicated to scarcely clothed war heroes of yore. The entire village, paradoxically, always smelled like pretty flowers, and even in the deepest of alleys would your nostrils be penetrated by a fabulous smell.

This man, when he was yet a boy, already had a keen interest in the pugilistic arts, as well as in fighting with big, shiny swords. Over time, this interest only grew and grew and grew. In fact, whatever kind of weapon there was, if it could be used to potentially lethal effect, he had to feel it in his hands. He became a collector. Like a squirrel, he nestled all sharp things he could acquire in his weaponry. He called it weaponry, but it was really more of a dark hole, one he dug himself, just outside his home. Though he cherished all that sat in his weaponry, his favourite would forever be the double maces. Shining bright in the sun with a grand, purple reflection, dazzling everyone who beheld them. These two loyal friends had never failed him, nor would they ever, because they were forged with some of the finest and hardest of steel, and adorned with the most wonderful and good-looking of leathery leather straps. But a collection is, of course, no fun, if you cannot play with it every so often. And that is how he finally ended up in the jousting business.

He practiced and practiced, and before too long (he didn’t believe there was such a thing), he could count himself among the finest fighters in the land. After many a sparring match, always ending favourably for our hero, he felt he needed something more. Something a little more prestigious. Thus came the time to get his satisfaction, that he had been seeking for so long. The time was right. The time felt good. The time for his first real tournament! And oh, what a tournament it was!

I won’t bore you with the details of his preparation. Or rather, I’m not going to talk about that, because our man of the hour doesn’t require much preparation in the first place. The first enemy was one of little note. His appearance paled in comparison even to the brittle village elder, that only rose to get a loaf of bread and a stick of butter once every while. Needless to say, it took mere seconds before our hero had beaten him, and beaten him he did. Then, out came the second opponent. Hardly any taller than the last, but definitely in better shape. His armour was quite marvellous, and was already scarred by a good few attackers who set out to kill him dead, but failed miserably in the task. Matter, it did not. Yet again our esteemed hero defeated him, with but a few blows of his hard, steel maces. The armour that served his victim so well could now, at best, serve as a plate for tavern wenches to carry tankards of ale with. Another challenger appeared. Mostly cut from the same cloth as the last one, barely more of a challenge, either. And after him, well… It went on like this for quite a while, to say the least. Whoever was in charge of managing this tournament did a conspicuously good job in arranging all these hard, sweaty men, and ranking them perfectly according to skill. Let us move on, and just say everybody got a good turn.

When his final opponent came in from the distance on his magnificent horse, everyone in the audience let out a gasp. Even the announcers, quite visibly, got a little uncomfortable, as they held their hands over their crotches, as if trying to cover something up. Ah yes, invoked are powerful feelings in the heart of every person in attendance, when Sir Apenis makes his entrance (his exits were never too graceful.) It has been said that this man was so visually pleasing, even nature rose by springing up a mighty oak tree wherever he’d slain another in honourable combat. His horse he stabled, and onto the fighting grounds he stepped. Fear-stricken and overcome with grief for their local hero (soon to die, they figured,) some people fled the scene. Our hero would expose his true self to them yet. For they had not seen him perform at his full potential. Make no mistake, he fought like a lion before, but he was sure to save some of his strength for the final strokes.
At any rate, when the command was given to begin the fight, it was as if the sky itself opened up for these two brave warriors. Rain poured all over them, their garments completely drenched, their muscles gleaming wet in the sun. They circled around each other for a good while, feeling each other out. Trying to detect an opening. And when the first blow was delivered, it gave a thunderous smack that sounded across plains far and wide. Our hero was flung back a distance, and fell to the muddy ground. As he attempted to rise, he was only just in time to parry another incoming swing. Now back on his feet, he made his retaliation. But our hero prefers as many swings as possible, to maximize the damage, as opposed to Sir Apenis, who concentrates on single, but forceful strikes. This flurry of attacks greatly upset our enemy, but it had also left him a little dazed. He tried to fend off our hero, but a few strikes certainly hit their mark. Struggling, bleeding, he tried for a counter-attack. Right on target. The shoulder of our protagonist was now deeply cut. Blood trickled down all over his armour, but he can take it; he’d learned to take it long ago. Though this only made him more determined than ever. He would not give opportunity for another strike. He would finish him off, right here, right now. A leap so grand, never beheld before, his magnificent silhouette appeared before the sun eclipsing all. His double maces held high in the sky, he brought them down with a crushing force upon the chest of Sir Apenis. I’d love to tell you he made a good showing out of his death, that he had some final, deep and profound words of wisdom to pass on, but as I mentioned, his exits were always a little messy…

And so, he died almost instantly. His breastplate completely smashed, his shield broken up in a thousand bits. And there he lay, his face barely recognizable from the blunt force inflicted upon it. The loudest cheers and hoorays were shouted that day. Deafening roars, and sheer bewilderment of success, exalting our hero to grand champion. The skies agreed with this sentiment, as a wonderful rainbow appeared high above the earth (that is how the legend started, that, sort of like Sir Apenis, the planet itself commemorated his victories, by painting the sky with vibrant colours.) Such was always his fate. He knew, inside. He would be grand champion one day. And now he had convinced every disbeliever of his martial prowess. A great party emerged, while they dragged off the bloody corpse of Sir Apenis. This party, of course, lasted for hours upon hours, deep into the night. Our hero’s accomplishment would forever be remembered, and if not, well, some people erected a giant statue in his honour and remembrance, amongst the rather tall statues of all the other heroes produced in the village he calls home. I think it proven without a doubt; the world has never been as fancy as it was in the era…
Of Jouster Extraordinaire!

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From → Fantasy, Humour

One Comment
  1. Ja hoor, ja. Zie onderzijde. permalink

    Dis een lussig stuk tekst. Da anti-anti-lusk ik dwarsdoormiddibong.

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