[littlemanpoet]

Some kind of paralysis had come over Anakron as he watched the slow moving tableau below him. Finally, Mardil, with an unexpectedly humanish face for a werewolf, not to mention incredibly good odors emanating from his masculinity, held the femininly swoonging Alli by the neck, having crushed her to his body in an odd sort of half-libidinized playfulness, a half life-threatening grip, protecting his own body from Aimé's waiting arrow. Anakron thought it odd that he was holding Panakeia in supposed safety in much the same way, but without all the aromatic wafting that seemed to emanate from Mardil and Alli.

"A moment, please, Panakeia," Anakron said, and letting go off the relatively safe for the moment beauty at his side, raised his staff and cried, "Dweomer convey!"

Nothing happened.

"Dweomer! Convey!"

Still nothing happened.

Anakron shook his staff as if it were a bad flashlight (which ought to be assigned to Mordor too); Sylvester spit and hacked.

"Dweomer! Deeyayemen it! Conbloodyvey!!"

Decidedly nothing happened.

Exasperated, Anakron brought Sylvester down and looked him in the eye, suddenly wishing that he had never begun a staredown with a Siamese Cat.

"What, pray," he growled, "is going on?"

Sylvester turned furry and black and white and unSiamese, suddenly growing cartoon eyes and a very bulbous nose, and an overly thick tongue.

"Thinth you athked," Sylvester spit, "The two Blue Ithtari are interfering."

Anakron sagged. "Oh."

Trouble was, Anakron's shouting had caught MadrilWolf's attention while his ensuing hot and heavy tableau had stalled. He turned to Anakron, his face suddenly a lot more wolfish, dropped Alli sprawling to the ground, and lunged.

"Run, Panakeia!" Anakron pushed her behind him off the platform. In the next instant, Mardil was upon him, the hastily raised staff knocked away by one huge werewolfish arm. The staff hit the ground. Sylvester came off the end of the staff, bounced on the ground, and stood up to watch what was happening to his Master. Which was that he was being ripped at the throat by the bloodythirsty werewolf. Sylvester jumped in one cartoonishly possible leap, and landed on Mardil's back, hacking and spitting and pounding upon Mardil's back. Mardil let go of Anakron's prone form, writhing, trying to reach the madly hopping, punching, lispily prattling Sylvester. He got him round the neck at last, holding him at arm's length, a toothy ferocious grin on his face. Sylvester looked at him and his eyes popped out then back in cartoonishly.

"Uh-oh," Sylvester lisped. "Do your worthed!"

Mardil popped Sylvester into his mouth by the head and chomped. Suddenly Mardil's head enlarged at a cartoonishly alarming rate, vibrating fiercely (because Sylvester was giving the inside of his mouth a Bronx cheer*). A look of revulsion came over Mardil's face and he pulled Sylvester back out of his mouth in disgust. He reached up a claw to tear the annoying cat head from shoulders, when his face contorted in surprise, and he fell over, bonking the choking Sylvester on the head on the way down.

"Thufferin' thuccotath!" Sylvester said.

Mardil did not move. Aimé's arrow had been let fly, and had pierced Mardil's heart. He was dead.

*A Bronx cheer is achieved by sticking one's tongue out, closing one's lips, then blowing hard.