"Motone (BlackJack´s Origin)" by E. Hanna

Busk lifted his heavy hand-and-a-half-sword from it’s scabbard across his back. The leather of his interlocking plates of armour creaked as he presented the well-dented blade. “This count?” he asked with sibilant speech.

The wind blew wildly over the waters near the town, putting a chill in the late summer air. Patches of blue shifted as the clouds raced across the sky, dotting the dirt streets with altering patterns of golden light and blue shadow.

The gnome at the door seemed busy and unimpressed, “Yes, yes, standard weapons are permitted. Here is your chit... a finalist? Well, you fight the boy himself. Sit in the red corner, down the stairs and to the right.”

Busk re-sheathed his sword and grabbed the little token the gnome gave him with a fist the size of the creature’s head. Busk stood at an impressive seven feet, twice again as wide as a normal man. He had earned his bulging muscles swinging his sword as a mercenary. Big bushy eyebrows and rough stubble constituted all the hair above his neck. He wore no helmet, and his bald head was covered with dents and scars. Behind him came a comparatively littler man wearing a dusty old courtier’s cloak and carrying a sheaf of papers.

“Hold it,” said the self-important gnome, “Who’s that one?”

“I am mister Buskellion’s banker and attorney, Werst. I’ll be handling the cash sums after he defeats your champion. The rules are quite clear... the pot amounts to four hundred fifty-seven gold skulls, six silver bones, and two copper bloods.”

“You’ll get your coin if you win,” said the gnome as he jerked a thumb for the lawyer to pass.

The man laughed as he hurried to catch up with his immense client, “Mister Buskellion always wins.”

Within the converted warehouse, people were already choosing seats. Motone had come up with another one of her crazy schemes but this one had turned out to be a riotous success. “The Show” had become one of the most popular events the depressed area had seen in years. Fighters came from all over and put down good gold in the hopes of winning the fantastic prize pot.

Werst guided his client to the appointed red corner and gave the champ his pre-fight leg of chicken. Busk ripped the flesh and chewed it hungrily. The tiers of cheap benches took up most of the space in the rickety building. They surrounded a square about twenty paces on a side.

The square was simply a raised platform of planks covered over with hide. No ropes surrounded it, if a player fell out, the match was over. There were a few blood-stains on the hide which could not be cleaned out- though The Show was ostensibly a non-lethal event.

The crowds were currently cheering a comic pre-show designed to prevent riots when games started late. Two men were fighting in breeches. The idea of the combat was the polished wooden quarterstaff in the center, which was thoroughly greased before the fight. The results were often as comical as deadly. A few rowdies in the crowd laughed appreciatively but the hardcore gamblers were sizing Busk up. The house was laying equal odds for Busk or the house champion to win. Werst had even made a few bets, thinking that the odds should have been in Busk’s favour but happy to take advantage.

He looked through his papers again and found the advertisement written to describe this champion. Werst had never seen the champion but he imagined another burly brute slightly smaller than Busk. They had signed up on short notice and Werst had been less than thorough in his research. Not that it mattered.

Here was the paper: “Come one, come all. See the amazing Champion of Motone’s Arena. From a distant, unknown land this boy appeared, searching the world for something to satisfy his appetite for fight! Witness the incredible prowess of the Billy the Blind: a fighter so skilled he wears a blindfold in combat. Impossible you say? Come and see for yourself!” Werst chortled at the usual exaggerated claims of the show bill and leaned back in his seat to enjoy the show. Busk had finished his chicken and was seething for action.

The crowd was getting restless as a few employees carried an unconscious body from the platform while the other one took his bows and was ushered aside. The master of ceremonies, a new addition who could be paid for with Motone’s increasing coin, hopped up to the platform.

“And Now!” he shouted in a musical, baritone voice, “The Show is proud to bring to you.... tonight’s Main Event!” Some cheap musicians to one side struck up a thunderous drum beat. The crowd roared appreciatively as the proceedings moved into full swing. “We are pleased to introduce our returning champion- The Sightless Scrapper! The Bony Bruiser! Unbelievable Billy The Blind!”

Fans exploded into cheering. Shouts of “that’s our boy!” rose from more than one gambler in the crowd. From a door in the back came a figure who strode down the aisle. He wore a blue cloak about him, obscuring his features. He was shorter than Busk, and seemed to be quite wiry. He stalked forward with little acknowledgement to the crowd, taking his time. He slowed however, as a group of younger urchins near the platform started chanting. “Billy! the flip, do the flip!” A chorus emerged from fans around the blue corner: “the flip! the flip! the flip!” The man in blue shook his head wryly. He approached the blue corner of the platform and started a few running steps forward. Pushing off he performed an acrobatic flip arcing his legs over his head and bouncing lightly onto the platform. The crowd exploded in it’s enthusiasm.

The house champion removed his blue cloak to reveal a bony frame sported by a surprisingly young man, who couldn’t have been more than twenty. He had short brown hair and wore a black cloth over his eyes, covering them. He wore no armour, only a loose blue tunic and leggings designed to allow for maximum mobility. They were tied around the waist with a belt of black cloth.

The crowd quieted someone as the lanky boy set himself down cross-legged on the hide floor in the blue corner and sat patiently. The announcer turned towards Busk. “And the challenger... an awesome wielder of weapons, the massive muscle-man, Busk!”

Busk let out a mighty roar and vaulted up into the red corner. The crowd cheered enthusiastically. One or two fans around the blue corner booed good-naturedly. Busk drew his massive sword and gave it a few practice swings, he ended by pointing it toward his opponent in challenge. The blind figure rose gracefully and, placing his heels together and toes out, he bowed towards Busk.

Then he confused the crowd by turning and bowing towards the high tiers of the back wall where, if one looked carefully, there could barely be discerned a figure in a dark cloak. The dark shape did not acknowledge the gesture. The master of ceremonies gave a dramatic look toward each competitor and then lifted his hand. He brought it down in a chopping motion, “begin!”

As the MC hastily left the platform, the crowd roared and the fight began. Busk hefted his sword and stalked forward menacingly. The blind man moved almost languidly, striking a strange pose reminiscent of a crane. It seemed bizarre to Busk how the other man would let himself be cornered so easily. With a shrug, he set to, swinging his sword to quickly decapitate the fool.

In the next moments, the crowd saw extremely fast paced action. For the blind man, peace flowed through his body. The noise of the crowd silenced, the air seemed to thicken and become a watery, sensible substance. He felt it ripple as the sword arced slowly towards his neck.

Adjusting his stance slightly, he tilted his head. The sword missed him by the width of a finger. To Busk it seemed as if he had missed by mere accident. He swung again and missed the same way. He brought his sword over his head and brought it crashing down. The blind man stepped aside brought his knee to his chest. With precision he struck with his heel, trying to knock the large man off the platform. It was like kicking a rock. The smaller man instinctively stopped his momentum to avoid breaking his own bones. Quickly, he stepped back.

Busk whirled around angrily at being struck. The large swordsman swung again and again, missing if barely. The blind man seemed flustered as his counterblows fell with seemingly no effect. Briefly he considered striking the throat, but that would be too risky, and would possibly kill the large man.

After a the first period of fighting, a rest was called. The blind man adjusted his garments and sat cross-legged once more. Busk tore into another leg of chicken. If the warehouse had been completely silent and still, the closest members of the crowd might have just barely heard the resting youth mutter, “I need a strategy.” As it was, nobody came close to hearing him.

The combat resumed. This time, the behemoth charged bodily down the platform, seemingly intent on smashing the smaller man off. The blind fighter dodged nimbly aside and smiled subtly. He retreated, skipping back to the edge of the platform. Theatrically, the smaller man waved Busk forward. Busk angrily charged again, sword held high and screaming. As Busk came close, his foe did not leap aside. Rather, the blind man curled his body and pushed himself with all his might at the Busk’s legs. Though it was like ramming tree-trunks, the small man pushed on. Busk’s legs could not find the proper balance, and the momentum of his charge carried him heavily over the side of the platform.

The Master of Ceremonies cried out, “toss off! The match is over.”

There were shouts of joy and groans as betters saw the outcome. The winner rolled up onto his feet and bowed solemnly towards the fallen Busk. Werst was demanding a rematch, but the result of the fight was clear. The MC took the champion’s arm and lifted it, “The Winner, and Undefeated Champion, Billy the Blind!” The indicated man sagged in relief, and as the congratulatory applause died down, he shuffled towards the back door.

***

Elro, brother monk of the Order of the Creator, adjusted the cloth over his blind eyes as he stalked down the corridor. He gave a prayer of silent thanks that another match had passed without serious injury. But it was becoming all too clear that he would face tougher opponents, and that fighting without harming them would become more difficult. He made his way to the rooms that had been set up for him to rest. He wished for a loaf of bread and some cool water.

He found a glass of wine and an elegant ham waiting for him, with various fruits and vegetables. He reached out with his senses, listening for the indicators of another mind. His telepathy was imperfect, but he was improving. He could sense people and their overall impressions, though not their precise thoughts.

The person he sensed now had a strange aura. She was a young woman, but she seemed much older than him in experience. Her thoughts were shrouded and illusory, difficult to find. To the blind man, she was not identified by her appearance, but by her distinctive smell. She was a witch, always experimenting with potions and magical elixirs. She smelled of magic.

To the sighted she was a strange figure, which she obscured with dark cloaks and hoods. Her skin was a pale grey colour, and her hair was the blue-black of raven feathers. Here eyes were intense black, the part of her which displayed the most emotion. Elro had nearly given up trying to determine what motivated her.

“I’m done, Motone,” Elro told the woman, “That was my last fight.”

“Fah! I grow weary of your moralizing. Come, taste the fruits of your victory.”

“I asked for bread.”

“But what did you get? Life never gives you what you ask for, so you must stand ready to seize the best it presents. Like you, Elro. A little monk boy out in the world for his first time, your talent would have been wasted if not for me.”

“My ‘talent’ is only for defence. These matches are twisting my skills to harm for profit. I’m not going to do it any longer. This isn‘t me... I‘m not even using my own name.”

Motone’s voice altered suddenly from angry chiding to a comforting, maternal pitch, “I know what’s bothering you, my lad. You’re afraid you’ll lose if better fighters keep coming. Don’t worry, if you like I can even the odds a bit, hmmm. How about you use blood-drinker in the next match?” With a metallic chime she drew the slightly curving blade from the folds of her cloak. Peculiar red runes ran up along the sides of the polished steel. Motone was a connoisseur of such blades, often improving them with various enchantments.

“I don’t use killing weapons.” Elro folded his arms across his chest in an uncharacteristic show of hostility. He softened, “I do appreciate your efforts. You have always been fair with my portion of the gold. I have never felt the orphans so strong and healthy. The gold is more than enough to feed them all.”

“Another reason to keep at it, my boy.” Motone smiled, “Come, if blood-drinker is not to your liking, perhaps something smaller.” She took Elro down the hall to her little storage chamber. Potions and flasks stuffed on the shelves in no order gave the place a peculiar smell. She knocked over a large claymore (she would never admit it, but she could not lift the weapon without a boost from one of her potions). She rooted around and picked up a box of golden-red wood. She dusted it off a bit, and undid the small latch. The box was too small for a sword, only about as big as her forearm.

She opened up the box. to let Elro touch the contents. She seemed very proud, “I acquired it in the underworld from a one-eyed merchant named Skrin.”

Elro felt a strange texture, not quite steel- bone. It was shaped in a series of intricate curves, some folding over each other, ending in a razor edge and a needle-sharp point. It felt like a tooth, but half again as long as Elro’s hand. An intricately braided leather covering and stone crossbar made the hilt. “A tooth? A dagger?” Elro asked

“It is the tooth of a red dragon,” said Motone. Elro picked up the blade, it was perfectly balanced for fighting or throwing. Motone continued, “If you throw it, it will fly back to your hand. I have also treated it with a special chemical, it makes use of the power of dragon’s breath- the dagger is saturated with it. Slash the dagger through the air.

Elro complied, and felt a slight heat on the handle. The dagger’s blade burst into flame, hot and bright. “A red dragon?” Elro asked in wonder.

“The flame will go out before harming it’s master,” said Motone. “Sheath it in your belt, it is yours.”

“Oh no, I could never fight with a-” Elro was interrupted.

Motone placated, “Keep it as a gift, from your friend.”

“Very well, I accept it with thanks.” He seemed to face her for the first time, “Why do you do what you do, Motone? What is the ultimate purpose?”

“For now, money and good food.”

“Are you that much a cynic?”

“Am I a cynic because I don’t pray to the creator and muck about do-gooding like you?”

“Goodnight, Motone. Say your prayers before you sleep.”

“What?” she asked.

“Even a cynic can pray for redemption, even to a God she doesn’t believe in.”

***

It was a full and silvery-white moon in the sky. Liquids bubbled over burners as Motone stalked about her makeshift laboratory. She swept the junk off her worktable and placed a silver bowl in the center. Next to it she put a small sketch she had made of Elro’s face using charcoal. Elro’s face was angular, but softened by his smiling expression. She mixed in various reagents- ash for strength, eagles eyes for sight, octopus ink for darkness. Motone took the picture and carefully scraped the charcoal off the paper and into the silver bowl with the other liquids. She mixed them thoroughly. She found sharp scalpel and traced a cut into her left hand. She squeezed her blood into the bowl with little drops- working with feral intensity.

Something was missing. She stroked her chin, careless of the red stain it left on her face. Then she started tearing around her supplies, “two faces! I need something with two faces. She discarded an old silver coin. She knocked over a small statuette. Her eyes locked on a crumpled pile of playing cards. She grabbed them and hurled them onto the floor in a mess of rectangles. She dug through them, throwing useless one’s over her shoulder: nine of diamonds, two of spades, she needed a face card.

She found the Jack of Clubs. The picture was of two jacks with swords, one right side up and one upside-down. She dropped it into the silver bowl and let it float there. Then she found a flint and steel. Carefully she cracked sparks over the potion. The playing card quickly caught fire. The silver bowl lay filled with a smoking black liquid. Motone closed her eyes and muttered the words of Agamemnon, “taught by suffering. Drop by drop, wisdom is distilled from pain.”

Carefully, she poured a goodly amount into a flask and corked it. Wiping the blood off of her hand with a rag, she took the potion and made her way to where Elro lay sleeping.

***

Elro was lying on his side, back towards the door. Motone made her way stealthily towards the sleeping figure. She recalled an old play where the villain had slipped poison into his brother’s ear as he’d slept. It was not poison, but the ear was excellent for saturating the head without having to force the subject to drink the potion.

Motone looked down at the unsuspecting boy and wondered if he was dreaming. Stealthily, she uncorked the flask. Wisps of smoke escaped from the glass container. She upended it over Elro’s ear. The black liquid splashed, but enough fell in to do its work. Elro woke, clawing at the side of his head.

“What?” he staggered out of bed, and reeled toward Motone as she stepped back, slightly alarmed. Elro seemed to look straight at her, then took a step forward. He tried to take another, but fell forward, unconscious

The metamorphosis took place rapidly. Elro’s face changed the most. It took on an angular, craggy appearance that made it seem grim and menacing. Shadows of spiky stubble darkened his cheeks. His hair changed colour, moving from brown to black. Beneath his tunic, Elro’s muscles corded and bulged. His frame was still lean, but far more powerful and intimidating. He would be a fantastic gladiator.

Motone knelt over him and untied the cloth which covered his eyes. They were closed of course, and she lifted back his eyelids. The irises were a strange cast of brown, more on the side of red. The whites seemed somewhat blood-shot.

The man’s hand shot up and enclosed around her throat. The eyes opened to awareness, then narrowed on her face. “What have you done to me, witch?” he spoke in a menacing, gravely bass.

Motone shrugged and tried not to claw at his iron grip, “I gave you strength and sight, and a new personality. How do you feel, Elro?”

He tossed her away and rose to his feet, “I am not Elro. I’m something better.” He stroked his stubble thoughtfully. “I am another face.” As if by magic, a playing card flicked into his open hand from his sleeve. It was the one Motone had burned. Now it bore the image of the two jacks. The top one had a flaming dagger and a spiked crown. The other, the one below, wore a blindfold. “You will call me Black Jack. I hold the card, I control.”

“The name suits you, perfect name for The Show. You’ll replace Billy the Blind easily.”

“Why should I fight and in your little playpen, witch?”

“Because you’ll get enough gold to live like a king.”

“That will do, for now. The transformation has made me thirsty... and hungry. Bring food.”

Motone grinned impishly. Her experiment was a complete success. “Anything for my star attraction.”

***

The next challenger in The Show was young courtier from the Swidland further north. He seemed to think the whole experience was a jolly lark, a trip slumming. Naturally the crowd hated him. Canard, as the duellist was named, performed with deadly quickness in the preliminary matches dealing out a goodly number of cuts with his rapier and dagger. The crowd loathed him even more.

It was rumoured that there would be a replacement fighter for the house champion- a new and unknown warrior named Black Jack. As the pre-game festivities ended, spectators pressed forward to catch a glimpse of the new man for the blue corner.

The Master of Ceremonies lifted his voice as the drummers took up the beat. “And now, the newest addition to The Greatest Show In Town. From the darkest east, the man with the flaming tooth! The unstoppable muscle! The blade jabbing, Black Jack!” The crowd cheered at the dark silhouette in the back door.

The man was a tall shade in a black robe. His hood obscured his face as he strode confidently down the walkway. The light seemed to catch oddly on the pair of eyes, almost glowing red from within a pool of shadow. He made not theatrical flips or acrobatics as he climbed onto the platform. He seemed to glower tauntingly at the unnerved-looking Canard in the red corner. He did not remove his cloak and hood, but it was clearly draped over a muscular frame. And who knew what weapons or tricks were hidden within the dark robe’s folds?

Canard seemed to reassure himself by scoffing. After all, it was only a peasant. The courtly duellist made his way unhurriedly to the red corner. The master signalled the fight to begin. Canard drew his blade and struck an elegant ‘la fronte’ stance, his foil balanced perfectly in his extended hand.

Black Jack reached into his cloak and produced a fang-like dagger with a red hilt. A slight flick of his wrist and it ignited, seeming to spark similar flames in his two hooded eyes. Canard’s eyes widened at the sight of the flaming dagger. It was all the man had time to do before Black Jack bent his elbow and sent the dagger whirling low, flying in a blinding arc that travelled along the floor, curved up to cut off Canard’s free hand, and whirled back into Black Jack’s iron grip.

Canard stared in disbelief at the flame-cauterized stump on the end of his left arm. A few audience members ran off sick at the display, but most remained to see the rest of The Show. Canard was very pale, but he looked like he could still swing his sword. Canard charged forward with the intent of exacting revenge.

Contemptuously, Black Jack turned around and gave his back to the furious man. Canard shouted defiance and lunged forward. The dark man moved with blinding quickness, crouching aside and extending both his arms like the giant claws of a beast. His muscular arms clamped down over the off-balance courtier and tossed him bodily over the edge of the ring with enough force to elicit a sickening crunching sound as bones broke. Black Jack moved smugly to the center of the ring and raised his arms, accepting the thunderous applause of the gamblers who would make a tidy amount on the long odds of Black Jack’s victory and dock thugs who liked a good, damaging fight.

The master of Ceremonies belatedly shouted, “And the winner is Black Jack with a quick victory!” Attendants placed the moaning Canard on a stretcher and quietly carried him out of sight.

***

In the following weeks, Black Jack became the new arena favourite. The few Urchins and children who still shouted for Billy the Blind were paid a few coppers and told they could either shout for Black Jack or they could leave. Within a month the gentle, brown robed fighter was forgotten. The Show became a grim spectacle. Fewer and fewer warriors dared to challenge the imposing new champion, who developed a reputation for maiming his opponents.

However, this new level of violence sparked a new type of audience, one thirsty for the grim displays. The people paid good coin to see it as well.

Black Jack skulked down the corridor to his chambers. Motone met him, “Well done as usual, good monk.”

“Ha!” he laughed bitterly, “I might as well still be a monk for all the change that’s come to my life. I’m toying with just leaving, or killing you and taking all the gold first. I don’t particularly care about gold. Is that how you made me? Or is some part of that snivelling whelp still clattering around in my head?”

“Be careful, Black Jack,” said Motone, “If you become more trouble than you’re worth I’ll just make another-”

Black Jack lifted Motone up by her throat and held her up with one hand, “Then I’ll just kill you now.”

Motone nearly managed to hide her fear and surprise. Through her desperate choking she rasped, “If *cugh* you kill me... *ung* you won’t live a fortnight.”

Black Jack seemed satisfied with the point he had made. He let her drop in a heap on the floor. Leering over her he made wickedly certain who had control of the negotiation, “Oh?”

“Elro will come back when the moon is once more full. Your muscles will shrink... you’ll be a chaste monk boy again.” She rubbed her throat, “But I can stop him returning with a potion.”

“A Potion,” Black Jack repeated sceptically. “You will make it tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow night is the special match... the surprise fight of the-” Motone grinned inwardly.

“You will make the potion and give it to me before the match. I will decide then if it pleases me to break weaklings in your pitiful arena or no.”

“Very well,” Motone said in her best voice of reluctant contrition. “I’ll need you to get me some ingredients.”

“I’ll steal or gut whatever you need,” grinned the imposing black-cloaked figure.

“Here’s a list,” she said simply, “I’ll make your potion as soon as you get these. Now I have some special posters to put up.”

“Play your games, witch,” Black Jack said unconcernedly. “Remember that even with your sword and your potions you are no match for me.”

“I would hardly forget,” she said, “I made you.”

***

Black Jack found the components for the potions in the bloodiest ways possible. Motone set to work industriously on a potion. She locked herself away for whole the whole of the next day brewing the magical forces together. She prepared for the night to come.

Black Jack burst in just as the sun was setting. “Where is my potion?”

Motone did not look up from her table for a moment. She was applying a dark-blue colouring to her lips, making a bizarre contrast with her grey skin. Motone turned around and pointed to a flask full of black liquid on a shelf beside the tall man. “There it is.”

“Do you know something about that blind boy I was?” Black Jack grinned ironically, “his blindness let his mental senses improve. One of best skills was knowing when people were lying.”

“What do you mean?” Motone stood and moved back a little, standing beside a tattered tapestry.

“You weren’t lying when you said the full moon would change me back. You were lying when you said this potion would keep me Black Jack.” He drew the dragon-tooth blade and filled the room with its fiery light.

Casually, Motone reached up and took the Black potion down from the shelf. She rolled it in her hand and then put it in her pocket. Striding back down the room she answered, “It will bring Elro back. If you’d been fool enough to drink it, you would be unworthy for my very special Show tonight. But I see you’ve got brains as well as brawn. So I’ll say this to you: Elro is a better man than you‘ll ever be.”

“What!?” Black Jack’s eyes narrowed fiercely. His dagger’s light made his eyes seem to glow red.

“You’re uglier too. Elro was a handsome young man. You’re a freak. A pathetic shadow of the real Elro.”

This was enough to send Black Jack flying into a thoughtless rage. He flew through the air, aiming to put his dagger through Motone’s eye. With a flick of her wrist, she pulled back the tapestry and revealed a secret passage. Before Black Jack could start she was gone, running through the narrow gap between the walls of the passage.

Black Jack pursued, lighting the way with his dagger and eating the distance away with his large strides. The dark hall wound this way and that, confusing even the sharpest sense of direction. But Black Jack’s eyes were keen, and he saw the billowing darkness of Motone’s cloak fleeing far ahead of him. Then the path moved upward steeply. Black Jack found the rungs of a ladder leading to a bright light above. He roared up and found the strangest sight.

The passage had led to a trap-door in the floor of the arena. The beams of mirrored spotlights shone down to illuminate the platform and from the darkness a packed house of spectators cheered. Motone was standing in the blue corner. She had cast aside her cloak to reveal fighter’s garb cut from black leather. It was, however, cut most immodestly in strategic places. Motone was drinking deeply from a red vial. Her skin turned brilliant white, her hair turned a shimmering golden-red. Her muscles trimmed making her look a well-balanced and athletic dancer. She held blood-drinker in a gauntleted fist. She tossed aside the empty red vial and pulled the blue-black one from her belt. With a twist she poured the potion over the blade of her long, curving sword. The runes and blade turned a sticky charcoal colour. With the ease and grace of a master swordsman, she twirled the blade left and right, creating a circle around her. Then she struck a fighting stance that levelled the sword straight at Black Jack. “Let The Show begin!!!” she sang in a melodious voice.

Black Jack growled and set his dagger before him. He dropped his own hooded cloak to reveal his lean, muscular form. He moved with deadly grace and power, “Even with your skill-enhancing fairy juice you cannot defeat me.”

Motone laughed and flicked her sword to splatter drops of potion on the floor. “All I have to do is cut you, and my potion will turn you back into Elro. And I‘m very good with blood-drinker.”

“You can try,” said Black Jack. The odds were closer, but he still felt cruel confidence in his ability to crush the witch once and for all.

Black Jack was not stupid and his rage had had time to cool off. He considered the situation. Her blade was longer, but he could throw his from a distance. He was physically stronger but she seemed to have enhanced her reflexes and balance. He wondered how long the potion would last. His first task would be to relieve her of her sword. Then he would kill her, slowly.

Motone was anxious but she knew that all she had to do was score a single cut. Her potion as very potent. She closed on him quickly before he could throw his dagger. He blocked her vicious slashes like he was batting away a moth. She reflected that perhaps she had pushed it a little when enhancing Elro’s strength. Using her increased speed, she rolled beneath one of his slashes and rose, thrusting he blade, behind him. Black Jack didn’t even turn to follow her curse that sensitive mind. He merely stepped aside and jabbed behind him with his dagger’s blade coming out of the bottom of his fist. Motone had to dodge and narrowly avoided an impaling stab in the gut.

The young woman danced away, guarding herself with her blade. She needed to put him off balance, distract him. “You know when I’m telling the truth, eh?” she taunted, “then you’ll know this is true. You may not be expelled from Elro when the moon is full, but this potion is special. When it works once it will curse you. It will cripple Black Jack and give him a weakness.”

Black Jack didn’t respond with words. He merely stepped back and arced his dagger across the platform. It would have chopped through Motone’s legs if not for her reflexes. The tooth shot out sparks as it bounced off blood-drinker. It curved a lazy path back to Black Jack’s waiting hand.

“The weakness will be a part of you forever. If I cut the potion into your leg, forever a cut to Black Jack’s leg will bring Elro back. Or the arm, or the nose.” As she said this she swiped meaningfully at his face, and he had to lean back to avoid a small cut.

But even as he leaned back he brought his leg up to deliver a punishing kick to the shin. There was a slight *crack* as something important broke. Motone cried out in pain and fell to one knee, dropping her sword guard ever-so-slightly. Black Jack’s fist was already moving with his kick and he landed a numbing blow on the wrist of Motone’s sword-arm.

Blood-drinker was batted out of Motone’s grip and flew off the platform. She recoiled in fear and desperation, dragging her leg back painfully. But Black Jack closed for the kill. He reached for her and held her behind the head with his large hand as if he would crush her skull like a nut. He leerer victoriously into her eyes. She thrashed and tried to move back but he held her close. His grim face showed no mercy, but in that moment, when Black Jack’s victory seemed most certain, Motone saw something peculiar behind those glowing red eyes. There was a sadness behind that anger. There was a struggle for some tiny remnant of mercy pushing powerfully against the iron cruelty in those eyes. The blind monk’s eyes were still there in that monstrous body.

In that moment, Motone employed her last, secret weapon. Instead of fighting, instead of pulling back, she moved unexpectedly towards that looming face. Tilting her head, she kissed him, full on the lips. Black Jack was taken so by surprise that he stood paralysed in shock for a full two seconds before he pushed her away.

He moved back, coughing and spluttering. Blue-black liquid stained his lips, smeared from Motone’s own. He tried to spit the potion was already working deeper into his system. Like a wounded bear he lurched back and forth until finally he collapsed onto the platform.

The crowd went wild. Black Jack’s reign of terror in the arena was over. But they did not see more closely. Black Jack’s hard-lined face softened as a child’s going to sleep. The shadow of stubble seemed to lighten and melt away. His bunched muscles relaxed and faded to normality. Elro’s blind eyes misted and faded to life. A playing card fell out of his sleeve. Right side up, the jack wore a blindfold and a crown of flowers. Below, the jack was upside down, faded and indistinct.

Elro leaped up, “I’m free!” he cried, “Free!” He danced merrily around the ring. He grabbed a surprised Motone and cavorted about the platform in an impromptu jig as the musicians struck up a final victorious chord.

Billy the blind would not fight in the arena again. That final night was The Last Show. Elro the monk went off to roam other lands. Though he did not know it, he would find a bard, and poets, and an Angel, and many more adventures. Few know what Motone’s obscure motives led her to after that night. Shadows obscure her movements.

But this tale is most important for answering why. This is why Elro the monk can fight in such a deadly manner. This is why sometimes, when the moon is right, and a fey amount of ash and blood is in the air, Elro will become something far more deadly. But most importantly, this is why Elro can always be brought back from this transformation. Brought back by a moment of climactic choice or by a change of the cards. But most importantly, this is why Elro can always be brought back by a woman’s kiss.