The would-be assassin struggled against his glutinous bonds, every movement only encouraging the hundreds of noodles to constrict further around his legs and bend his ankles up tighter against his lower back. He clawed uselessly at the strangulating rope of wursts around his neck, gasping for breath as they squeezed ever tighter.

He hadn't expected the chef-mage to use his powers so ... painfully. He was just going to slip in through an open window, overpower the shep, put the cook on ice, and be gone to collect his pay from whatever benefactor wanted a dead dog. In retrospect, he should have done more research on what a mage will do when cornered ...

First there was the splash of superheated chili sauce in his face. A wave of the dog's hand and the liquid appeared from nowhere, searing his nostrils and blinding him with pain. The pasta restraints followed quickly enough, followed by a swift and painful beating by what felt like a frozen ham hock. And now here he was, fighting to breathe as his intended victim stared him down.

"I want to make something clear," the dog said in a purposefully flat tone. "If I wanted to, I could kill you very easily right now. Summon a big bubble of boiling peanut oil around you and fry your body in minutes. Replace the air in your lungs with a few pounds of frosting and watch you suffocate. Channel a few gallons of soup down your throat and rupture your stomach, let you suffer debilitating pain in your last few moments of life." He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. "But I don't want your blood on my hands. They're dirty enough with blood from men whose shoes you aren't worthy to kiss."

Luprand hefted the heavy chunk of meat in his hands once or twice. "So I'm just going to break your arms and send you back with a message for your employers: leave me alone, and I'll return the favor." He then swung hard, willing himself not to hear the crack of a snapping humerus.

So, uh. Been in a bit of a dark place emotionally of late. Wound up reading a TVTropes article that put this image in my head. Obviously this is an alt-universe Derek, given that the regular one would be sniveling, dead, or boring the assassin with awkward and stilted Gilbert and Sullivan references in this situation.