Author's Note
I wasn't going to add to this fic, but a little hint from a review gave me an idea. You have Deionarra to 'thank' for this . . .
*
[One of the most unpleasant properties of custard is that unless kept at a steady 45 degrees Celsius, it tends to congeal quite quickly into a most disagreeable, gelatinous sludge. Nosgoth custard is apparently no exception to this rule, as can plainly be seen from the 27 litres of bright yellow pudding currently being stirred in a blow-up paddling pool on the floor of the Red Raven bar.
This could get messy.]
*
Nosgoth Newsreader (still sporting an attractive duck-feather suit): We're live outside the Red Raven pub, about to bring you the 'First Annual Nosgoth Custard Wrestling Tournament'.
*camera shows a rather shadowy view of the proceedings through a murky window-pane*
Nosgoth Newsreader: Contenders have gathered around and are awaiting their turns, ready to unnerve opponents with spitballs, verbal abuse and assorted dessert toppings. The rest of them are grating cheese. No, viewers, that's not an euphemism, they really are grating cheese. One of the Terrans has apparently created a new recipe consisting of wildfowl and marscapone which she is thinking of calling 'Nosgothic Duck' or 'Duck a l'Abyss'. It is being served up in large quantities as the contestants get ready for the Tournament.
[Meanwhile, inside. . .]
Deionarra: *confused* What's the point in this?
Lilith: What's the point in what?
Deionarra: This Tournament. I mean, aside from his personal amusement . . . *points at Raziel, who is grinning from fang to fang and – inexplicably – has a large number of Kain dolls covering his lap* Why are we doing this?
Lilith: *jerks a thumb towards Deionarra* What's up with grouchy?
MikotoTribal: *winks* I think she just needs changing – hang on, I'll get the baby powder.
Deionarra: Now wait just one darn minute . . .*dodges out of Mikoto's way a fraction of a second too late, and ends up covered in a light frosting of talc* . . . All I want to know is what we get out of it.
Vladimir's Angel: Haven't you been paying attention? We get down with the custard, and Raz doesn't get chucked into that overgrown washing machine. *sniffles* Poor Raz.
Shadowrayne: *clumps past, wearing platform boots, a long trenchcoat and a fake beard, along with a badge proclaiming 'Life Begins at 50'*
Lilith: *watches Shadowrayne suspiciously*
Deionarra: Well? Shouldn't the winner get a prize or something?
Vladimir's Angel: *head on one side and a dreamy expression on her face* Do you think we can get him to stand up and face the wall?
Deionarra: *snickers* Yeah, that'd do. Waitasec – I've got a better idea. *glances slyly at Raziel*
Raziel: *Looks slightly nervous, wondering what's going through the Invader's twisted mind (he's heard the rumours too)*
Deionarra: Winner takes on Raziel in the custard.
Raziel: Hold on - I never agreed to that!
Lilith: *sighs* OK, put the custard away.
Raziel: Aww, bloodclots! *drums claws on chair* Alright, I'll do it.
MikotoTribal: *winks slyly at crowd* Anyone would think he didn't like girls. . .
Raziel: *pouting* I just didn't want to get custard on my new leathers.
Vladimir's Angel: *grins impishly* There's an easy solution to that, hon.
Silmuen: *wanders in, 'accidentally' shutting the door in the Nosgoth Newsreader's face*. Sorry I'm late – I've been selling counterfeit Reavers on the Sunday market.
Lilith: Did you bring any with you?
Silmuen: Er, no - just mine . . . I thought you already had weapons.
Lilith: *looks at current arsenal of Moulinex blenders, cheese graters and Kain dolls*
I s'pose we could have brought the Reavers . . .
*
Nosgoth Newsreader: *bangs on door of Red Raven pub*
MikotoTribal; *opens door, a necklace of silvered duck tongues around her neck*
I told you once already . . . *brandishes cheese grater menacingly*
Nosgoth Newsreader: How about if I leave the camera outside? Then I can just document the proceedings for the Meridian Missive.
MikotoTribal: *fiddles with her Kain doll's hair* I dunno . . .
In the background, behind the Nosgoth Newsreader, Kain appears.
Kain: *runs full-pelt past the bar* aaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaargh!
MikotoTribal: *pokes her head out for a better view* What's up with him?
ArchEnemy/Ebony: *races after the fleeing Vampire, grinning like a demon* Wait up! This won't hurt . . . much.
Kain: (in the distance) Someone help me! The woman's insane!
ArchEnemy/Ebony: (in the distance) Mwahahaha! You can run, but you can't hide . . .
Nosgoth Newsreader: So, can I come in?
MikotoTribal: Well . . . OK, but no cameras.
Nosgoth Newsreader: Done.
*strolls into bar wearing a large Stetson with a hole in the front. It appears to be making some strange whirring noises*
Nosgoth Newsreader: And so it begins. The contestants are lined up and ready, the custard is at the perfect temperature, and round one is about to start.
Lilith: Aren't you supposed to be writing this down as opposed to commentating?
Nosgoth Newsreader: Er . . . yeah.
*gropes in his coat for a notepad and pen. The Stetson continues to whir and click*
Nosgoth Newsreader: I just thought it might add a touch of professionalism to the proceedings.
[A particularly energetic bout of wrestling ensues, splattering contestants and observers alike in mounds of yellow gloop. The contest continues apace, keeping to the 'winner-stays-on' rule until Number Nine meets Number Eleven.]
Nosgoth Newsreader: Well this is a turn-up for the books, viewers – er, I mean - friends. I am reliably informed that a state of intense rivalry has held sway between these two contenders ever since Number Eleven inflicted several serious spork missile wounds on Number Nine. This should be a good match – oh! Contestant Number Nine seems to be trying to subdue her opponent with a disposable diaper – but no! Contestant Eleven has retaliated with Number Nine's walking stick, which she seems to be attempting to use as some sort of plunger!
Raziel: *rolling around in his chair* I would've killed to see this!
*Front door bangs open and a very flustered-looking Kain rushes in, slamming the door shut behind him and panting. Everyone turns to look at him*
Kain: You have to give me sanctuary - you don't understand – the woman's deranged!
*takes in the scene before him in a single glance: there's a vat full of custard containing two struggling yellow figures - who are far too engrossed in the match to notice something so trivial as the arrival of the Master Vampire; there's a nervous-looking man in an outsized comedy hat with a life of its own; in the far corner sits his firstborn, with a lapful of figures that look suspiciously like himself several hundred years ago; the rest of the pub is full of women wearing the same kind of outfit as the one he has just escaped*
Kain: Nooooo! They're everywhere! Get out, Raziel, save yourself. You don't know what these women are capable of!
*everyone exchanges puzzled glances*
Raziel: They're capable of custard wrestling . . .
Kain: Fool! They're only after one thing!
Raziel: *Looks unfazed*
ArchEnemy/Ebony: (from outside). He-e-ere Kainy Kainy Kainy . . .
Kain: *looks pleadingly at all present*
Lilith: Oh alright, we'll hide you. Get in the custard.
Kain: *swan dives into the pool, covering walls, windows and contestants with an inch-thick layer of Lo-Cost's own brand custard*
Kittie: *Moves her books out of range of further custard assaults and carries on working*
ArchEnemy/Ebony: *pokes head around the door* Seen Kain anywhere?
Kain: *comes up for air*
Mikoto and Deionarra: *plunge his head back under again, smiling innocently at ArchEnemy/Ebony*
MikotoTribal: Nope. Shall we tell him you're looking for him?
*the custard bubbles indignantly*
ArchEnemy/Ebony: Yup. I'll go wait for him in the Sanctuary. *wanders out, then peeps back in*
Mikoto and Deionarra: *plunge Kain's head back under again*
ArchEnemy/Ebony: Hey - Kain screams like a girlie. *winks and departs*
[The pub is silent. Custard drips from every surface. Eventually, a cloven foot breaks the thick meniscus on the paddling pool.]
Mikoto and Deionarra: *allow Kain to surface*
Kain: *splutters a bit then licks his lips, looking more like a banana than a gherkin for a change*
Kain: This custard tastes like baby powder. . .
*looks up to see Vladimir's Angel and Lilith grinning maliciously at him*
Kain: What?
Vladimir's Angel: You thinking what I'm thinking?
Lilith: I'm thinking if someone doesn't want us to tell someone else where he is, he'd better agree to our terms.
Shadowrayne: *hands over a contract* I spell-checked it this time.
Raziel: *chuckles* So no bugles for Kain?
Vladimir's Angel: Hmmm . . . *raises an eyebrow at Kain, who has settled himself in the paddling pool between Mikoto and Deionarra and is looking much happier since he is apparently not in any immediate danger from loony women with a taste for the undead*
Lilith: Righty-o, then, Mr Kain. If you'll just sign this, we can carry on with the Tournament.
Nosgoth Newsreader: Hold on, I've run out of film . . .
*everyone in the pub turns and scowls at him*
Nosgoth Newsreader: I mean . . . er . . . paper.
Silmuen: *takes aim, swings and bats newsreader out the door with her counterfeit Reaver*
Nosgoth Newsreader: (soaring over Meridian) I can see my house from here!
[Back inside. . .]
Vladimir's Angel: *hands Kain the contract and a biro*
Kain: (whose attention is elsewhere) *signs agreement without reading it, completely oblivious to the fact that not only has he given Raziel permission to grow wings with impunity, but he has also just signed over the Sanctuary of the Clans to the Terran Invaders*
Lilith: (smug) Thanks very much. Now if you'll kindly vacate the arena.
Kain: Arena? Oh. You mean the paddling pool. *leans back with his hands behind his head, grinning, stretching his legs out and splashing custard over spectators*
Surely I won't be in the way if I stay here?
Shadowrayne: Shall I tell ArchEnemy/Ebony it's OK to come in now?
Kain: Argh!
*leaps to his feet, scattering globs of custard in a 20ft diameter circle, and bolts out the back door*
Kain: (from a distance) £$^%&* Terran women!
Deionarra: Aww. *pouts* Would've been fun to have an obstacle in the pool.
MikotoTribal: I'll show you an obstacle, you inflictor of spork scars, you!
[the custard begins to fly . . .]
