Originally Posted by
grampagen
The boot struck the rounded edge as Zaofan pressed forward. As he raised the rolling pin to guard, the Chef made one crucial miscalculation:
His utensil was not one fixed design for the body spun separately from the grips. It was designed to reduce fatigue, and his eyes widened in horror as no matter how hard he clutched the handles, it did its function too well, rolling up and over and ding absolutely nothing to stop the path of the Katchin Boot!
With precise timing, Sasheem's counter glided in smoothly - effortlessly and without tack - under the heavy cylindrical surface and Zaofan felt the impact square in the face doubly so for he only continued to fall at this extreme speed.
"--mMMRoOOAAggHHH--!!!" Wind shear and compression from that mighty blow contorted his face. His eyes spun in their sockets as they widened and glazed over. The perfect knockout shot!
But though the boot went through his clumsy attempt to block it, the Martial Chef's grip was steadfast upon his tool. Sasheem's kick slid from his jaw, clipped his temple, till the outstretched Katchin leg flew past his shoulder by the mercy of slick, bloody gob.
Zaofan's arms fell slack, and the Rolling Pin in his hands found a malleable surface on the extended limb past the blunt instrument that had struck him. Reflexively, his constitution stiffened, and the rolling began aggressively!
"Dough Rolla Da~!"
It started easy at first, more a brief push. Then Zaofan began to sweep and press, back and forth and over again to thin the substance before him to the thickness of a pasta sheet or a wonton wrapper. The teary pools of his eyes lit up and a Warm Glowing, Warming Glow fell from his sight. It swept from the heart of the battlefield, flooding beneath the overhangs and ancient temple structures of the Lookout.
As he worked the 'dough' there was a certain hush, a sensation of a wholesome, inner peace. A hazy spiritual contentment fell wherever the light touched, a healing and satisfaction, like crisp bites in summer and hot mugs in winter. Briefly there was a tranquility that was shared there to match the Forest Shrine of Barlon Bedlam himself.
The Majin was at the epicentre of it, and Zaofan continued to fall. Closer, now, chasing to the end the illuminating comfort of this task. Was this the ascended spirit of a chef, given over unknowingly to a deep, instinctive love for his craft? The gleeful dedication was shouted repeatedly through the loose tongue inside his slack jaw:
"RORARORARORARORARORARORARORARORARORARORA-!!!"