21

                                    

                                          

                            

                                
                            
                              
                                  
                              
                              
                                
                                  
                                  
                                
                              
                             
                            
                            
                          
                          
                          
"I hate everything," said Calponia, the words slurred by her bitten tongue. She hated to find herself face down again, while some big bad hovered over her to royally muck up her day. She hated feeling like a massive burden to Mack and the others, in constant Damsel in Distress mode. And most of all, she hated this bloody stupid curse. She was done, so done. This curse was going to be the death of her, probably quite soon. Except... there was a glimmer on Sanguinheim, where it seemed like she could use the damn bète noir to her advantage. If the curse went to such great lengths to sow misery, it stood to reason it wasn't too choosy with its targets. What was the saying? Misery loved company. If the curse was going to leak out of her at random, then it was time she learned to aim it.  
                          
Calponia was not a skilled fighter, but she was excellent at flailing. She threw herself sideways, flopping like a fish on land, and praying to any deity that might be listening that this worked. Her legs thrashed...
                          
She could feel the bète noir lash out. Her foot caught the inquisitor in the back of the knee. He flew backward, ass over tea kettle, landing hard and awkward. The surrounding zealots jerked and tumbled into one another, disoriented by the fall of their puppet master. A stupid grin spread wide on Calponia's face as she tried to get to her feet, slipped on the wet cobblestones and drove her falling boot heels into the inquisitor's groin. He wheezed and curled on his side. The zealots collapsed, puppets with their strings cut. Hell hath no fury like a cursed klutz.
                          
"What just happened?" Lady Agatha wondered out loud. 
                          
"Never mind that," said Mack. He appeared beside Calponia and scooped her off the ground, hustling back to the tavern with her in his arms. "That was brilliant."
                          
Her dopey grin grew a little wider, so wide she had to stop her mustache from peeling off. Mack set her on her feet at the door, handing her off to Cesario who tugged and smoothed everything back into place as Lady Agatha sauntered up to them. 
                          
"Are you alright?" Cesario winced at the blood on her chin. "We'll get you cleaned up inside. Least it's keeping your beard in place." 
                          
"Bright side to everything," said Lady Agatha, looking somewhat disappointed her battle was cut short.
                          
"Sword away, milady," said Mack, "We are trying to keep a low profile though I'm sure you'll get it plenty dirty before the day is out."
                          
With a nod, Lady Agatha tucked her blade out of sight in her skirts once more, leaning against Cal's shoulder. "Thank goodness this brave gentleman saved my life," she said in a heightened sing song voice. Calponia wondered what the hell she was doing when she realized the tavern door was already open. She blinked, spying a room full of patrons through the crack in the door. None of them came to help, really?
                          
Mack noticed her irate expression. "The Inquisitors aren't something they know how to deal with Cal," He winked, flicking a nonexistent piece of lint from her shoulder. "We can't all flail with such gusto."