Bartholomew stood before me; he smiled, and I saw his crooked teeth.

"Splendid, a Champions Duel, a battle of wits, three queries, thrice guess thou shalt proffer to astonish. Here lies the inaugural interrogative that demands thy response. In the ethereal tapestry of yonder void, a cipher veiled in the tongues of eld and the whispers of aeons to come."

Local: Champion's Duel. Part 1: Overcome Sir Bartholomew's Battle of Wits. (Quests Disabled)

His voice changed as he incanted in a sing-song cadence, "From the abode of celestial ancients, through the starlit maelstrom, it travels without step or wing. In its wake, chronicles of eons are both inscribed and unwound. Shrouded by the vesture of infinitude, it keeps the secrets of forgotten realms and unborn galaxies. This unseen yet omnipresent harbinger carries the echoes of creation and oblivion. Name this silent voyager who drifts through the rivers of time."

Sprite: If you don't mind cheating, I've got this one.

Not yet.

Shit. Celestial Ancients, starlit maelstrom. So, something from space? Shit. I hated these. This was a fucking riddle game on steroids, and I had no idea. I knew some of the famous ones from watching The Hobbit, but other than that, I was shit.

Sprite: I can feel your brain straining. Do you want a hint?

Is it cheating if you are part of me?

Sprite: That is the sweetest thing you have said to me. I would not consider it cheating, as I cannot exist without you now. While we are separate entities, our fates are bound together.

Fuck it, let's slam this.

Sprite: With a 98% chance of being correct, Light.

"Light"

"Forsooth! A point conceded, though delivered with a touch of that youthful exuberance," Bartholomew chuckled, a hint of twinkle in his eye. "Indeed, the lack of such stipulations in our playful duel was a curious oversight. Perhaps one was born of an overestimation of the inherent connection between a refined education and the art of captivating discourse. Alas! It seems the finer points of eloquence can, on occasion, elude even the most well-schooled amongst us."

He raised a finger playfully. "However, fret not, for this oversight merely adds a delightful layer of impish amusement to the proceedings. You have displayed a cunning pragmatism in exploiting this loophole, a quality not to be underestimated. One point to you, I say again, with the caveat that the remaining two questions shall demand both expediency and a mastery of the rhetorical arts. Prepare yourself, good sir, for the true test of your wit and verbal finesse is yet to come! Indicate to me, one Sir Bartholomew, when you desire to test your wits anon."

I nodded again.

Once again, his voice took on a musical tone, "In the ancient tongues of the arcane, where mystic sigils glow beneath moonlight's caress, I conjure forth a riddle, steeped in the eldritch and enigmatic: Born from the whispered incantation and the requisite gesticulation and sacrifice, it flickers like a flame in the heart of the night. Neither bound by flesh nor wrought by stone, it slips through the fingers of the wise and the grasp of the bold. Guardian of secrets and revealer of fates, it dances at the edge of reality, visible only to those who dare to see beyond. Name this ethereal warden, who commands the unseen and shapes the shadows."

Sprite: Got it. You are slow.

I've never done shit like this before; you are literally a walking talking, thinking cross-referencing machine; you could say you are built of this sort of problem. Give me a minute to see if I can work it out.

Sprite: Do not hasten yourself and misremember your needs to reply with sophistication and style.

Don't remind me. I'll just say it in 20 words instead or a couple.

Is it magic?

Sprite: What gave it away, Incantations and the requisite gesticulation and sacrifice

Yeah, there are verbal, somatic, and material components of spells.

"Done easily, Sir Bartholomew, I thank you for the challenge, yet forsooth, I find the resolution of this conundrum to be 'Magic', and I look forward to the final challenge that you put before me."

I felt like a fool speaking like that. But sometimes, it was necessary. The things I went through to meet new people and make a good impression.

His eyes sparked, and he smiled with his broken teeth, "Hark! It appears the initial enrichment of your vocabulary presented but a modest intellectual hurdle. A point, therefore, must be awarded for your perspicacity. However, whilst your response achieved a commendable grade of seven on a scale of ten for stylistic merit, a certain absence of sophistication was undeniably evident. Dare I say, a lack of eloquent flourish? Perhaps you found the initial task to be trifling beneath your mental prowess? Fret not, for a grander test of your erudition awaits! Fear not, I shall not pose an insurmountable challenge, for I have now discerned the precise compass of your acumen. I shall unleash a veritable labyrinthine conundrum designed to both stimulate your cognitive faculties and refine your verbal dexterity. When you stand prepared to face this intellectual gauntlet, signify your readiness!"

Sprite: Stop trying to be clever. Leave that to me. I'll help.

Shit. Too late, and damn, did he just say he would make them harder?

Sprite: Well, you said it was easy.

I just nodded.

"Verily, before us lies the grand finale of this most stimulating intellectual joust! A triumphant procession of three correct answers will grant you passage to the fabled "Duel of Champions," wherein a worthy adversary, hand-selected by yours truly, shall stand opposite you. But fret not, dear contestant, for before we reach that illustrious stage, a single, final hurdle remains in this battle of words and cunning. Harken closely, for this challenge transcends mere vocabulary expansion and demands a flourish of true sophistication. Let it be known that a string of polysyllabic words, haphazardly cobbled together, shall not suffice, much like the desperate grasping of shipwrecked souls clinging to a splintered raft. Nay, this final test shall demand a masterful display of wit, a tapestry woven with eloquence and cunning, a performance that shall truly captivate and astonish the very judges themselves!"

I was struggling to follow what he was saying. In fact, I was not sure how much was important. If I skipped every third word, would it still make sense? Damn. I lost focus as he kept rambling.

"Therefore, steel yourself, good sir, for the third and most formidable challenge now awaits: Within the cobwebbed confines of ancient libraries, where whispers echo through forgotten lore, a tale persists of Bartholomew, a cunning alchemist thrice christened – Bartholomew III, some say. Legend imbues him with the possession of a mythical elixir, the "Elixir Vitae." This potent potion, so the flickering flames of folklore illuminate, bestowed not only the coveted prize of immortality upon its imbiber but also the extraordinary ability to converse with the very denizens of the natural world – from the soaring hawk to the burrowing badger, all would supposedly divulge their secrets."

Bartholomew's projection sighed dramatically, "Alas, time, that relentless thief, has absconded with Bartholomew Bartholomew III's alchemical journal, the tome containing the coveted formula for this wondrous elixir. However, intrepid scholar, fortune has smiled upon you! For I have unearthed a cryptic fragment, a tattered page believed to be a portion of the missing journal. Upon this parchment, faded with age, the following inscription tantalizes:

The hologram paused. I thought I might be broken, then Bartholomew continued, "Aqua vitae, thrice distilled with the tears of a lunar beast, under the baleful gaze of a celestial body unseen for a generation, yields the key to eternal life."

He laughed, excited, "The task before you, esteemed challenger, is to decipher the veiled meaning within this fragment. Unravel the tapestry of symbolism and reveal the true ingredients and the precise conditions necessary for the creation of Bartholomew's fabled elixir. Can you, through the keen lens of your intellect, pierce the veil of obscurity and unlock the secrets of this legendary potion? The fate of immortality, perhaps, hangs in the balance."

He peered at me keenly, his broken smile only slightly off-putting.

Sprite: Give me a moment. We are lucky that the translation skill is at work; otherwise, we would have no context for some of this. Aqua vitae literally translates to "water of life," often referring to high-proof alcoholic beverages like brandy in alchemy. Thrice distilled confirms that this would be pure alcohol.

Nice, Tears of a lunar beast. How about what druids collect at night under the moon? In the rain?

Stolen story; please report.

Sprite: That's witches, and it would either be rain or dew—dew collected during a full moon. The last one is easy: a comet. Don't forget style and sophistication.

Shit. How to respond.

Sprite: Let me know. I don't want to rain on your parade.

There was only a little bit of pride on the line here.

I can do this.

Sprite: Hint - here are some words thrown together. Unadulterated alcohol, moon at its zenith, celestial apparition.

That was enough, alcohol, dew or rain under a full moon and a comet! I totally didn't need Sprite's hints at all.

"Behold, I have wondered on the response and verily believe that the great Bartholomew Bartholomew the Third's missing reagents are the essence of unadulterated liquor, mingled with dew harvested beneath the radiant luminescence of the moon at its zenith, accompanied by the celestial apparition of a comet tracing its ancient and mystic arc through the heavens."

He actually clapped his hands.

"Egad! A most triumphant display of intellectual prowess, esteemed challenger! You have, with keen discernment, unravelled the arcane secrets veiled within the cryptic pronouncements of the fragment. Your powers of deduction are akin to those of the legendary Theseus, navigating the labyrinth with logic as your thread! Indeed, your interpretation of the 'Aqua Vitae' as pure alcohol, thrice passed through the fiery crucible of distillation until it achieves its most perfect state, is a mark of astuteness. The 'tears of a lunar beast,' a turn of phrase both whimsical and rich with symbolic weight, undoubtedly translates to dew gathered under the luminous caress of a full moon, potentially infused with some ethereal essence drawn from that celestial orb. Finally, your interpretation of the 'baleful gaze of a celestial body unseen for a generation' as none other than a comet, that harbinger of cosmic rarity streaking across the heavens but once in a lifetime, is a testament to your sharp wit! Through the sagacious application of your erudition, you have potentially unlocked the secrets of Bartholomew's fabled elixir. A veritable recipe of ingenious alchemy, if I may be so bold! Whether this concoction shall bestow the gift of immortality and the power to converse with the creatures of the wild remains to be seen, but of one truth, there can be no doubt - your mental acuity shines with a brilliance that rivals the very stars themselves! Brace yourself, challenger, for the ensuing 'Duel of Champions' draws nigh, where you shall face an adversary of formidable brawn, chosen specifically to test the mettle of your battle prowess, to see if your skill at arms matches your wit. But for now, savour the well-deserved satisfaction of having triumphed over this most perplexing riddle!"

Sprite: He seems pretty unstable. Be careful with what you say.

Really? I didn't notice. What gave it away? Just the hundred words he used to say well done, next challenge.

The hologram flickered out, and Sir Bartholomew faded, leaving me standing before the energy shield.

Just as I was getting worried and impatient, the barrier parted, and another being walked through.

Tall and lanky, reed-thin and old. Older in appearance than Sir Bartholomew, if that were possible. He, too, was dressed in mismatched armour, a mix between the ceramic plated armour that would not be out of place in a Mad Max movie or as a goalie in future Ice Hockey. While no less magnificent than Sir Bartholomew's, his beard was grey and had been neatly platted and tucked into a belt that put Batman's utility belt to shame.

Despite his frail appearance, he stepped with almost youthful vigour and a smile.

"By the great beard of Jupiter! Forgive this most egregious lapse in etiquette, Sir Luke. Years of slumber, it would seem, have dulled the edges of my social graces. Allow me, therefore, to introduce myself with the utmost decorum. I am Professor Thaddeus von Beauregard, the Younger, though some, to my eternal chagrin, persist in the vulgar abbreviation of 'Sir Beau'. I freely admit that the title of 'Undefeated Champion of the House Bartholomew' is mine to bear, a distinction I hold with a certain smugness. Now, to the task at hand! Aethelwulf – though 'Aethel,' I confess, I find myself drawn to a more familiar address, much to his consternation, a playful jab that, to his credit, he does not answer with a swift kick to my backside, which is a testament to his remarkable restraint, I might add. Yes, where were we? In defeating Aethel, we are at the duel. Ah, yes, the duel! We shall test the mettle of your martial prowess, Sir Luke. Fear not, for I am a veritable master of the clash and parry. Observe my physique! A symphony of finely honed muscle honed to perfection through years of dedicated training. However, I offer you a choice, my noble adversary: shall we engage in a contest of pure strength, clad in the finest plate armour? Or perhaps a more balletic display of swordsmanship, unencumbered by the weight of metal? Perhaps the thrill of ranged combat, arrows whistling through the air, testing your reflexes and marksmanship? Rest assured, my skills extend to all forms of warfare. But here's the rub, Sir Knight! While victory is a sweet nectar, mere brute force shall not suffice. Style, my dear fellow, style! Flourishes, feints, and a touch of thespian flair – these will distinguish the true master from a mere cudgel-wielding barbarian. Three clean blows shall declare the victor, a testament to both strength and artistry. So, Sir Luke, take your pick! Let us commence this glorious dance of combat. May the most… ahem …stylish warrior prevail!"

Fuck. Another verbose archaic wordsmith! I'd let him knock me out to stop having to listen to it all.

Sprite: I like his description of your fighting style. I worry about your lack of access to your skills. Even your Blademaster abilities will be muted here, and you don't have a true close weapon. I would suggest ranged or unarmed. Not that you are an expert at either. He has got you on all counts. I suggest you clarify things. Oh, be polite and practice your flowery language.

Yes, mum, but damn, I'm not skilled in …

Sprite: Noted.

"May I ask some questions to clarify some points about the duel, Professor Beauregard? For surely, if I engage in something that you excel at and I am not as proficient, there would be little or no challenge for the champion. My fighting style is sufficiently handicapped in this environment, and I cannot perform at my best. Therefore, I offer a challenge of tactics and wisdom, a battle of minds before blades are drawn."

It was not bad, but it sounded better in my head; when I spoke, it was awkward and did not have a smooth rhythm or practised lilting. Damn, they were windy speakers.

He looked at me and nodded, "Ah, Sir Luke! Doth thine keen eye detect a hint of trepidation within my aged bones? Fret not; for a while, the sands of time may have etched a few wrinkles upon my brow; my spirit remains as fiery as a dragon's breath! Fear not that a single blow from your youthful exuberance shall send this old warrior hobbling off to the apothecary for poultices and salves. Nay, your concern for my well-being warms the cockles of my heart, a testament to your inherent chivalry. However, a duel we must have if only to soothe the restless itch of a warrior long slumbering. Since you have, with admirable sensitivity, cast aspersions upon my ability to wield a blade without inflicting irreparable damage upon my person, the choice of weaponry shall no longer fall to you. Therefore, I propose a most… ahem… unconventional form of combat: the noble art of fisticuffs! Let us eschew the cold steel and engage in a glorious display of pugilistic prowess! A mere exchange of well-placed blows, a dance of the knuckles, a gavotte of the gloves! This, I assure you, shall minimize the risk of permanent disfigurement and perhaps alleviate your anxieties about reducing me to a quivering mass of bruises. So step forth, Sir Luke, and let us commence this most… invigorating… display of martial… ahem… finesse!" Professor Thaddeus winked slyly, a glint in his eye that suggests a fondness for brawling despite his protestations.

Shit.

We spent another few minutes sorting out our ten-meter ring drawn in the sand. It would have been quicker if I had kept my mouth shut and not asked simple questions. Thaddeus was even more windy and wordy than Bartholomew, if that was at all possible.

The Professor pulled some gloves out of his spatial storage and offered me a second pair. He then proceeded to strip off his armour down to his undergarments, which, luckily for me, looked like a padded cotton onesie. It did nothing to hide his frail skin and bones.

I removed my urban armour and remained in my underarmour.

He taped his hands up professionally while I fumbled to wrap mine. The gloves, which were little more than padded knuckle guards, fit snugly over the tape.

We had drawn two lines in the middle of the circle, so I approached one while Thaddeus limbered up.

The creaking, cracking and popping noises did little to make me feel more confident that I would not break him.

He approached his marker and shaped up.

I shaped up using my best memories of Fight Club and some MMA I had watched with Mike. He made the classic waving motion with his hands and winked.

The scrawny professor cheated.

Local: You have been affected by the skill: Perfidy of the Ambush (Reactions slowed).

Local: you have fallen for The Preemptive Gambit (Reduced defence)

Local: You have been struck by The Tempestuous Barrage. (Maximum Subdual Damage)

Local: You suffer The Monolithic Concussion (Confusion)

Local: You have been struck by The Coup de Grâce.

When I came too, I was lying outside the ring. I felt as if I had bruises all over my chest, and my chin was throbbing.

The Professor was smiling at me and laughing.

Sprite: Well, that was embarrassing.

Let us never talk of that again. Delete the recording.

Sprite: I would be rich if I had a recording of that. There is not enough energy or storage to record here reliably.

If my skills had been working, it would have been different.

Sprite: Not really. Possibly it would have been worse. You may have hit him and shown how ineffectual that would have been.

Sprite was right. Despite being totally outclassed at that moment, I was still unsure if I could have hit him, and since I was unsure how tough he was, I thought that might have been for the best. I was pretty strong these days, despite my skills being stuffed.

"By Jove! It appears the cobwebs from disuse have not entirely choked the life out of my martial prowess! Though, I confess, facing an opponent as formidable as yourself does necessitate a certain… ahem…recalibration of one's expectations. I still stand emboldened with the moniker 'Undefeated', which you hoped would require a touch of revision in light of our … exhilarating encounter. Fear not, Sir Luke, for I bow not to defeat but to your admirable fortitude! Many a lesser warrior would have succumbed to the… persuasive arguments of my pugilistic artistry, slumbering peacefully for days. Yet, here you stand, blinking away the stars, a testament to your resilience. Indeed, your performance deserves a standing ovation! The balletic grace of your airborne trajectory and the… ahem… spectacular bounce out of the ring was a display worthy of a minstrel's song! You have, sir, humbled this old warrior and with great style! But enough of these playful jabs – though I must confess, you do make jabbing with words and fists so easy. We have dispensed with the formalities of combat, and now, more pressing matters beckon! A feast awaits you within our humble abode, a banquet laden with succulent viands and the finest vintages. For much discourse must flow before we can unravel the tangled threads of your request – the boon you seek and the aid we can offer in return."

The doorway reopened in the barrier, and the tall, thin Professor jumped through with a spring in his step.

He turned and called to me through the door, "Come, come, Sir Luke, Champion of the Empire! Exciting times indeed lie ahead, and I, for one, relish the prospect of forging an alliance as potent as the very wine we shall imbibe! Hurry, good sir, and let us delve into the heart of this most intriguing proposition!"

I stood, dusted myself off, collected my belongings and with a confused and somewhat subdued heart, I followed him into the dome. I was not really embarrassed. Really. I felt fine about being one punch KOed by an ancient Professor. The only saving grace from this entire situation was that there were no records of our duel and no witnesses.