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((Between Wavesoul Fantasia and myself on Discord!))

Amusingly, Vígríðr often found patrolling the city at night to be more relaxing than running his longhouse BBQ during the day. Despite enjoying the company of his regular customers and listening to large slabs of meat sizzle over open flame in the pit, people could be demanding. Customer service always tended to be that way. But when the page was powered up and looking to ward the meek and defenseless against Chaos, well... that was nice and simple. That problem could usually be solved with his fists, and he did enjoy a good scrap. Wasn't much to think about beyond which way to dodge and which way to strike.

A bit of serendipity was visited upon the knight-in-training: he could sense a Chaos signature not long after powering up and choosing a path. He was near an empty baseball field, was someone being preyed upon? It wouldn't do to let the villain get away with it, not if he could help it! The page rushed forward, looking side to side and standing right out in the open.

"Show yourself, villain! I know you are here, you cannot run."

It was true that Vígríðr's senses weren't sharp enough to pinpoint energy signatures, but he knew the source was close. If they weren't cowardly fools they'd show themselves at his challenge, but considering the Negaverse that was a bit of a toss-up in the first place. The page wasn't even entirely sure it'd be someone close to his power level, but the only way to find out was to face them. It's not like he could run away if someone was in trouble just because their tormentor might have higher echelons of power available. The wannabe knight had found out early on that his wonder magnified his own strength, it didn't just give him a set level. Thus it'd become apparent over time that while he might not be as fast as the more powerful agents of Chaos, he could certainly match most of them blow for blow unless they were a general or something. It felt nice to have all that weightlifting pay off.

Thankfully his search quickly resolved itself, as a figure that had been mostly hidden in the shadows wrapping the bleachers of the field suddenly stumbled and went clattering down a few rows. Well, they certainly weren't actively draining anyone that he could see, just what were they doing aside from losing their footing? Vígríðr was momentarily confused, wondering if it was some manner of cheap trick to get him to lower his guard, but he wasn't falling for it. He crossed his arms, nodding at his erstwhile foe.

"Ah, so you are a man after all. You rise to meet my challenge, er... metaphorically speaking."

At least the guy had managed to stand again.

"What business have you here? The stench of Chaos roils from your form. Explain yourself and perhaps I will go easy on you!"

Well, the other guy did have a point. He kind of could go wherever he wanted, supposedly. But not while empowered by Chaos. That's why the side of Order existed. Whenever agents of the Negaverse were about, it was never for anything good. Vígríðr guessed they didn't necessarily need to be doing anything bad either, but it'd be a losing game to guess whether or not this guy was up to anything nefarious.

"You're an odd one, but you have stones."

The blonde stepped forward confidently, drawn to his full height.

"You are my business, strange man. You cannot hide the cloak of darkness that wraps about you. I am Vígríðr, Page of Jupiter, and you can either come with me or answer with your fists. Weapon. Your choice, really. I can be accommodating."

The page glanced down at his wrists to ensure his newly-forged bracers were in place. They were, glittering dully in the reflected light from streetlamps. Oh how he hoped this agent would pick option number 2. Escorting was much duller than combat.

Rutile. Now his opponent had a name, as it should be. Despite his seeming awkwardness, the agent didn't give up his advantageous position above and behind a fence. If Vígríðr wanted him, he'd have to go get him. The other man claimed he didn't want to fight, but... that giant needle thing looked wicked.

"A wise choice, but I don't suppose you'll surrender your weapon either. I don't much like being stabbed."

It was a gamble, but the page thought he could land in the bleachers without exposing himself to a free attack. Never know unless he tried. Gathering his strength and quickly kneeling so as not to give Rutile plenty of time to get into position, Vígríðr pushed off and leapt clear over the fence guarding the bleachers. He was aiming for the benches farther down from the agent and landed heavily on the thin metal (thankfully keeping his footing). Whirling quickly, the Order scion cocked a fist back and charged forward. His other arm was held up defensively with his bracer front and center.

"Prepare yourself!" Vígríðr roared in a battle cry, throwing his fist forward in a powerful haymaker.

Vígríðr was surprised at how quickly Rutile dropped into a ready stance, but it seemed he was a bit out of practice. Or wasn't expecting to be punched in the face. Either or. Regardless, his first blow had landed solidly and looked to have done some good damage. The reaction was dangerous, though.

The agent was now flailing wildly, throwing his arms about and backing away to make best use of his advantageous position and superior range. He had a weapon and the higher ground, after all. Rutile had definitely succeeded, as the page wasn't about to move into a madly whirling flurry of arms and needle, but now Vígríðr was about to face the consequences of not pushing his short-lived assault.

The needle came more quickly than one would have thought following Rutile's prior movements, and the nubile knight barely had time to throw up his left arm and swipe at the incoming point with his bracer. He'd been too slow. Sure the strike had been shifted from stabbing him square in the upper arm, but the weapon still tore through his tunic and the flesh underneath, leaving a gash along the top of his shoulder.

"Gah, Odin's sweaty balls!" Vígríðr hissed through gritted teeth.

That stung. He deserved no less, however. He'd been too slow, and he knew that speed increased along with power as one resonated more with the source of their gifts. It was slowly becoming apparent that this Rutile might not be the lowest of the ranks within the Negaverse, which meant positioning was paramount unless the page wanted his foe to dance circles around him. He didn't much like causing collateral damage, but he was sure the Minor Leaguers or whomever used the field would understand if they knew what was at stake.

He and his wonder really needed to have a chat about providing him with a proper weapon, not just a necklace. Stepping back to gain distance, Vígríðr gripped a bleacher firmly and pulled mightily. With a screech of protest from the metal, he now held a sizable length of it.

"Have at you!" he rumbled, aiming a diagonal swing upward at Rutile's nearest hip.

The pain was worth getting to bludgeon a guy through the air with a makeshift club. That was immensely satisfying. The sheer audacity of the attack seemed to have caught Rutile off-guard and it connected fully, sending the agent sprawling. It was a tad pathetic how he slid limply down from one bleacher to the next before tumbling to a sad stop.

Vígríðr was panting slightly, holding the bleacher defensively across his chest. Blood was trickling from his injured shoulder, but that didn't stop him from barking a challenge of laughter back.

"Hah! I told you I did not like being stabbed. Vengeance tastes of shoddy steel and the free gumwads stuck beneath!"

All the fight seemed to have gone out of the agent, however, as he'd lost his needle in the fall and was quickly retreating to the top of the bleachers. Before the page could even call him out for running form battle, the other man had jumped over the back of the stands and was gone.

"Hmph. A coward after all. But can one blame him when faced with the righteous might of Jupiter?"

He'd need to go home and treat his shoulder, the cut was rather nasty. After all, Rutile would probably pop up again someday. Vígríðr would nab him then. Before leaving, he awkwardly set his makeshift weapon back onto the torn brackets from which he'd ripped it. Good enough. He turned to head home, looking forward to a good night's sleep.