The mace, and its cousins the club and the stick are among the first weapons that mankind brought to bear on the problem of 'how do I fuck this
individual's shit up.' The individual might have been food or competition for food; or competition for food that ended up, while perhaps not tasting
quite as good a pumpkin pie, on the plate nonetheless. It has been with us ever since, and in a variety of forms; the stick, the inevitable escalation of the
stick with something tied to the end of it, the metal stick with pointy out bits. It has been a weapon of combat. It has been a symbol of authority. From royal
scepters, to the batons of officers in the trenches. Canadians use one to open parliament, and Al Capone used the Americanized sports version to open
braincases and thus demonstrate that he really, really wanted to be in charge.
As weapons go, it is not ideal. There are certainly things to recommend them. They magnify the force of the bearer and are relatively easy to obtain, or fake
as needed. Working against them, they are, with a few notable exceptions, unbalanced weapons, relying on the motive power of the body as much as the weapon
itself. Depending on their individual characteristics they have limited secondary wounding capabilities, and while they possess great offence, something that
would endear them to Mel the Cook on Alice; their defensive capabilities are limited to having a great offence.
The mace currently being used to bash fossil replicas was. Well it was just silly. Almost five feet long, ending in a huge, bulbous head that sported several
remarkable flanges. I have seen flanges. These were remarkable ones. The mace as an art deco statement. Or a more telling statement, I am an utter prat for
thinking that using this in a combat situation is a good thing. Okay in the really real world that would be the case; in a world suddenly populated with
extraordinary powers, it had be approached with caution.
This went through my mind while laughing boy was dealing with my last statement. I daresay that not nearly the same amount was going through his mind; though
there was, I surmised, considerably more free and open space there; and perhaps a few dust bunnies.
"The world is approximately four point five billion years old, not 10,000; all evidence points to a conclusion that it was not the result of special
creation; Adam and Eve are symbolic figures of a bronze age morality play, they did not live with dinosaurs; or live at all for that matter, and young earth
creationists are ignorant twats."
In my defense, a fight was inevitable. No sense beating around the bush. Besides, I wanted him angry. He alit from his perch, landing on the ground with enough
force to crack the marble. I flipped him the bird. No more time for talkies.
"Blasphemer!" When the advantage of destructive force is on the outside arc, an inside line is recommended. He swung, I stepped in; punching my left
hand, sans sword, into his right, where he gripped the mace. My right, now holding the shorter blade, drove hard at his side. He grunted as the point slammed
home, but it did not penetrate flesh. He knew he had been kissed though, I could see it in his face. He lifted the mace to bring it down, raising it above his
head. I followed the motion, grasping the wrist as it passed behind his center and yanking down hard. Invulnerable. Sure, but joints are joints and physics
does not just happen to other people. He fell backwards to avoid having his shoulder dislocated.
Remember when I said I knew flanges? He fell back onto his mace. It is safe to say that he now knows flanges in a rather more intimate way than I know flanges,
and I can only hope that he and the flanges make each other very happy. I stomped on his face as I stepped past and slashed down. He rolled to the left and was
able to get the haft of his weapon up to intercept the strike. I backpedalled to avoid giving him the opportunity to counter. We circled. He has a reach
advantage. I tossed the short sword away, letting it vanish and brought my bastard sword to hand. He knew I could hurt him; but didn't think I could hurt
him in a very real, blood and spilled guts sense. He might even have been right. He wasn't. He swung. I mimicked the motion that I had used earlier. He was
expecting it. I was counting on it. The sword moved to my left hand and I drove it in a hard, punching strike with the lower harmonic of the blade into his
fingers. These are very small bones with not a lot of protective tissue to sheath them. He might be invulnerable, but he wasn't invulnerable enough. Bones
snapped like breadsticks. He screamed, I made a note to have a good, hard, scour the porcelain bus vomit later. I snapped my arm back and up, feeding the
pommel into teeth; the pommel of my sword being slightly larger than a hockey puck and delivered with similar speed. Teeth are very hard. They are also fairly
brittle, and unless you are Mick Jagger or Steve Tyler, there is not a lot of protective tissue in front of them. Having your mouth open to scream doesn't
help either. Teeth broke; the shards pierced cheeks and lips as I repeated the motion. I grabbed broken fingers and squeezed and twisted in a short, tight,
circle. Pain causing him to follow the motion. I didn't let him. Turning my body to keep his from falling. His elbow went first, the joint giving way with
a sound not unlike Julia Childe quartering a chicken. The shoulder was next. Julia Childe quartering a much larger chicken. I let him fall, face first,
accelerating him into the ground with my hips and landing on top of the loosely flopping arm. Three hard blows with the pommel to the back of his head ended
the fight.
I rose and wiped blood from my face. There wasn't a lot of time.
individual's shit up.' The individual might have been food or competition for food; or competition for food that ended up, while perhaps not tasting
quite as good a pumpkin pie, on the plate nonetheless. It has been with us ever since, and in a variety of forms; the stick, the inevitable escalation of the
stick with something tied to the end of it, the metal stick with pointy out bits. It has been a weapon of combat. It has been a symbol of authority. From royal
scepters, to the batons of officers in the trenches. Canadians use one to open parliament, and Al Capone used the Americanized sports version to open
braincases and thus demonstrate that he really, really wanted to be in charge.
As weapons go, it is not ideal. There are certainly things to recommend them. They magnify the force of the bearer and are relatively easy to obtain, or fake
as needed. Working against them, they are, with a few notable exceptions, unbalanced weapons, relying on the motive power of the body as much as the weapon
itself. Depending on their individual characteristics they have limited secondary wounding capabilities, and while they possess great offence, something that
would endear them to Mel the Cook on Alice; their defensive capabilities are limited to having a great offence.
The mace currently being used to bash fossil replicas was. Well it was just silly. Almost five feet long, ending in a huge, bulbous head that sported several
remarkable flanges. I have seen flanges. These were remarkable ones. The mace as an art deco statement. Or a more telling statement, I am an utter prat for
thinking that using this in a combat situation is a good thing. Okay in the really real world that would be the case; in a world suddenly populated with
extraordinary powers, it had be approached with caution.
This went through my mind while laughing boy was dealing with my last statement. I daresay that not nearly the same amount was going through his mind; though
there was, I surmised, considerably more free and open space there; and perhaps a few dust bunnies.
"The world is approximately four point five billion years old, not 10,000; all evidence points to a conclusion that it was not the result of special
creation; Adam and Eve are symbolic figures of a bronze age morality play, they did not live with dinosaurs; or live at all for that matter, and young earth
creationists are ignorant twats."
In my defense, a fight was inevitable. No sense beating around the bush. Besides, I wanted him angry. He alit from his perch, landing on the ground with enough
force to crack the marble. I flipped him the bird. No more time for talkies.
"Blasphemer!" When the advantage of destructive force is on the outside arc, an inside line is recommended. He swung, I stepped in; punching my left
hand, sans sword, into his right, where he gripped the mace. My right, now holding the shorter blade, drove hard at his side. He grunted as the point slammed
home, but it did not penetrate flesh. He knew he had been kissed though, I could see it in his face. He lifted the mace to bring it down, raising it above his
head. I followed the motion, grasping the wrist as it passed behind his center and yanking down hard. Invulnerable. Sure, but joints are joints and physics
does not just happen to other people. He fell backwards to avoid having his shoulder dislocated.
Remember when I said I knew flanges? He fell back onto his mace. It is safe to say that he now knows flanges in a rather more intimate way than I know flanges,
and I can only hope that he and the flanges make each other very happy. I stomped on his face as I stepped past and slashed down. He rolled to the left and was
able to get the haft of his weapon up to intercept the strike. I backpedalled to avoid giving him the opportunity to counter. We circled. He has a reach
advantage. I tossed the short sword away, letting it vanish and brought my bastard sword to hand. He knew I could hurt him; but didn't think I could hurt
him in a very real, blood and spilled guts sense. He might even have been right. He wasn't. He swung. I mimicked the motion that I had used earlier. He was
expecting it. I was counting on it. The sword moved to my left hand and I drove it in a hard, punching strike with the lower harmonic of the blade into his
fingers. These are very small bones with not a lot of protective tissue to sheath them. He might be invulnerable, but he wasn't invulnerable enough. Bones
snapped like breadsticks. He screamed, I made a note to have a good, hard, scour the porcelain bus vomit later. I snapped my arm back and up, feeding the
pommel into teeth; the pommel of my sword being slightly larger than a hockey puck and delivered with similar speed. Teeth are very hard. They are also fairly
brittle, and unless you are Mick Jagger or Steve Tyler, there is not a lot of protective tissue in front of them. Having your mouth open to scream doesn't
help either. Teeth broke; the shards pierced cheeks and lips as I repeated the motion. I grabbed broken fingers and squeezed and twisted in a short, tight,
circle. Pain causing him to follow the motion. I didn't let him. Turning my body to keep his from falling. His elbow went first, the joint giving way with
a sound not unlike Julia Childe quartering a chicken. The shoulder was next. Julia Childe quartering a much larger chicken. I let him fall, face first,
accelerating him into the ground with my hips and landing on top of the loosely flopping arm. Three hard blows with the pommel to the back of his head ended
the fight.
I rose and wiped blood from my face. There wasn't a lot of time.