This fight will begin 10/5/2009 at 12:00 AM PST. I wish both Contestants the best of luck, and for a good fight. Remember, that your opponents will post only after the both of you post. Enjoy your fight!
This fight will begin 10/5/2009 at 12:00 AM PST. I wish both Contestants the best of luck, and for a good fight. Remember, that your opponents will post only after the both of you post. Enjoy your fight!
It was dark, painfully so. The infinite blackness stretched in every direction, devoid of any light, all life absent from it's cold embrace. He was standing at its center, his entire being everywhere and nowhere, all at the same time. His eyes, if he had eyes in this place without depth, without shape, were staring straight ahead, unblinking. Slowly, as if being pulled from a hole smaller than even the most microscopic of beings, a light began to form ahead of him. Forever it formed, forever and instantly, blinding him in its brilliance even as it gave him a new perspective on reality. Ever expanding it encompassed him, swallowing him whole until the blackness was replaced now with light, bright and hot. The white faded slowly to gray, the gray to green, the green to blue, the blue to red, until individual colors began to blend and a scene unfolded before his squinting, tear filled eyes.
He was standing now in the center of a long, abandoned stretch of open highway. The faded black asphalt, cracked and weed strewn, arrow straight ahead of him, arrow straight behind. Over head a maelstrom of black clouds rolled like a sea caught in the grip of raging hurricane. Great streaks of white lightning, like the fingers of angry gods, cut the sky open, leaving floating after images like great scars in the sky. Rolling thunder, distant drums, growing in strength as they rolled over him, hammered at the air, shook the very ground, leaving shattered bones and broken souls in its wake. A rain began to fall then, big fat wet drops, colder than ice, hotter than magma, freezing him to the bone even as it seared him alive.
He lifted his gaze skyward, staring unblinking into the chaos above him, his mind reaching for meaning in the strange vision unfolding before him.
"Jason!" The wailing howl of the voice ripped at the heart beating fast and heavy in his chest, and he nearly lost his skin with fright as he leapt a good foot into the air. His breath came quick, fast and hard as he whipped his body around to gaze toward the source of the cry. "Jason!" The cry came again, no less heart wrenching, closer and if anything, more sorrowful.
Ahead of him, perhaps few dozen feet or so, a white clad figure stood, head drooped and arms hanging heavily at it sides. The rain was coming down in sheets now, puddles forming on the highway, great rivers beginning to flow along side it. The figure was standing perfectly still, its long brown hair falling down around its pale face, untouched by the rain. Beneath the somehow dry curls, two green-grays eyes, clouded in death, stared back.
"Jason!" The mouth didn't move, but the wail had most certainly come from behind its lips. A memory tugged at him and before he could fully grasp it he was running, straight toward the figure. As he drew closer he noticed that it's left arm was bent at an unnatural angle, its hand facing outward instead of in, a bleach white bone protruding from just below the elbow. The front of its white dress, for that was surely what it was that it was wearing, was streaked with brown-red blood, long since dried but still crimson enough to be easily recognized as to what it really was. He felt his arm stretched up and out, reaching for the figure even as his face contorted itself in a look of anguish. "Jason!" The voice cried out once more before he reached the figure, but even as he reached out to touch it, it flickered and vanished from beneath his fingers.
"Nooooo!" He heard himself scream, but felt nothing. He sank quickly to his knees, splashing in a great puddle that was forming beneath him, and sat staring at the place the figure had just seconds ago occupied. His eyes drifted slowly skyward and he stared once again at the chaos unfolding above him. His eyes slowly slide shut and despite the searing ice of the rain drops colliding against his face, he felt two tears well up in his eyes and slide down his cheeks.
He felt himself slowly falling backward.....
~**~
....and he awoke with a jerk as he fell face first onto the splintered floor boards that constituted the floor beneath his makeshift bed. He lay for a few moments longer, his mouth agape, drawing in ragged, quick breaths as he scattered thoughts slowly realigned themselves. After his breath had resumed its regular interval, he lay still for a long moment before slowly pushing himself up onto his hands and knees. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut and he could feel his mouth drawn back to reveal tightly clenched teeth, the flesh around them taut with the strain. Something boiled in his stomach and like a sledgehammer to the gut, his mouth opened and his dinner from the previous night splattered all over the floor below him. The pink gray matter was everywhere in an instant, oozing down between the floor boards, dripping in long slender streams from his gaping mouth. Before his could think of what just happened, his stomach heaved a second time and he produced more of the slimy substance onto the floor.
Coughing loudly he pushed himself away from the ever expanding puddle and sat heavily against the wall with a loud grunt. He sat for a moment, his eyes closed, collecting himself, swallowing the remnants of the liquid with a grimace. He reopened his eyes and, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, stood on his suddenly weak legs. After wiping his hands off on a dirty piece of cloth that lay near by he quickly gathered his things, inspected them for any splatter, and shouldered them roughly. He stared at the puddle for a long moment then, before shaking his head once and turning to the door.
That had been the fifth such nightmare, and the fifth such morning like this since his run in with the strange man in the world of waist deep water. He didn't remember much of that encounter, other than he had died, in a very bloody way, and frankly, he didn't much care to remember. He was distantly glad that he couldn't, even if he had wanted too. He hand pushed the door open and he was immediately washed with the sounds and scents of a busy pier. Salt and rotting sea weed scents filled the air, mixed with a heavy dose of sweat, blood and fecal matter. All around him things were moving, some out on the water in the form of ships, others in the forms of carts, carriages, barges and half naked, sweating men, hauling crates, boxes and barrels around. It all seemed like chaos to him, but he understood enough of it to know that it was a controlled chaos. Almost pointless chaos.
He glanced back into his refuge for that previous night, shook his head once more and quickly began making his way up the wood planked pier toward the shore. Hopefully the owner wouldn't show up soon, or eles he'd be in a world of hurt for stashing away there for the night, and throwing up all over the mans property.
He kept his eyes down cast as he walked, so he didn't see the figure standing in front of him until it was too late. Colliding hard into the fleshy figure, he bounced back a step with a grunt and immediately recoiled a second.
"I-I'm sorry, sir," he mumbled quickly, his hands raised defensively. "I didn't see you there...."
The ferry glided gradually and gracefully towards its mooring berth upon the isle of Corone, the serenity of its movement strangely befitting of a swan despite its behemothic bulk. The overnight voyage from Scara Brae had, from a nautical standpoint at least, been uneventful; the end of the journey was now in sight, and the vessel seemed as eager as any of its crew to be once again safely tethered to land.
The passengers on board the ferry, however, each found themselves struggling with their own problems. Some had sat for hours in the poorly heated, barely comfortable confines of second class accommodation; the easy camaraderie and friendly banter did little to conceal the fact that there were not enough seats for everybody to lie down and sleep upon, with the painful consequence that many were now suffering from muscle cramp and backache after spending the entire night in a stiff upright position. Others had been more fortunate to have travelled in the first class cabins, which were infinitely more luxurious and restful. But such fortune came with equivalent measures of vice and temptation, leading to unpleasant consequences the next morning: headaches caused by the consumption of excess quantities of alcohol, sore throats induced by the smoky atmosphere of the posh lounge, and bumps and bruises acquired during a brawl over a game of cards. In general, the passengers who woke up to the ship’s foghorn in their elegant staterooms found themselves fully regretting one or more aspects of the night before.
Yuka Kanamai considered herself lucky to have escaped the worst of the repercussions of the previous evening. She had neither drunk nor smoked, and although she had lost a small amount of coin at the card game, she had been wary enough of her companions – and in particular the dapper gentleman who had first approached her when she’d entered the lounge – to secrete the majority of her wealth in a safe location. For Yuka was nothing if not resourceful, and her quick wit and keen intelligence had been considered almost second to none in her homeland, the eastern isles of Nippon.
The young woman stood at the very bow of the ship, enjoying the fresh morning air and the spray of the sea as they approached shore. Her shoulder-length black hair, held back from her face by a simple head band, flowed behind her in the salty breeze; she wore a white cotton tunic and navy blue denim trousers with a casual ease that belied her arcane occupation. She was smiling to herself, at peace with the world despite all the troubles that she had recently been through.
For the time being, she could forget about the fact that she had, until not so long ago, been participating in a series of gladiatorial games known as the Tournament of Champions, designed to test her skills as a warrior for the amusement of a clique of shadowy figures known only as the Cabal. She did not have to dwell on the knowledge that she had been cast back into the city of Scara Brae without as much as a by-your-leave, where almost immediately she had been confronted by a street performer under the pseudonym of Tantalum regarding something she knew only as the Magus Cup. She remained blissfully unaware that the Patrick McCullough she had met the evening before had in fact been after her for the same reason, and only the brawl that had broken out not long after their acquaintance had prevented him from approaching her about it.
For the time being, she could forget about the fact that she had somehow lost the vast majority of her arcane powers upon leaving the Tournament of Champions, rendering her almost as defenceless as a newborn child in the face of the dangers of the world. So far, she had relied on her wits and her luck to see her through… so far, she had succeeded. But there was no guarantee that, in case of another encounter, she could depend upon them alone.
For the time being, she could forget about her past… about Thomas, and Ingwe, and the fact that she had wrought havoc on their lives in order to escape her former fate as a captive of familial ties and tradition. She could forget about her life in Haidia, where she had been forced to always keep one eye looking over her shoulder, just in case some aspiring daemon sought to take advantage of her human frailty.
For the time being, surrounded by the wind and the water, the open skies and the fathomless seas, she could just be Yuka Kanamai. Plain, simple, unadorned Yuka Kanamai.
The smile continued to play about her lips as she closed her eyes, all the better to savour the ephemeral moment. Delicate features upturned so as to feel the morning sun on her face, her slender breast taking slow, deep breaths in relaxed calm, for a long while she was a solitary island of serenity amongst the frenzied hustle and bustle of the passengers and crew.
The moment was not to last. She knew that it would be so, but still she could not hide her disappointment when at length the ferry came to a shuddering halt against the piers. She opened her eyes once more to take in the sight of the Coronian port town, the red brick buildings and grey tiled roofs clustered in seeming disorder around the calm of the sheltered bay. Senses fallen into disuse by her detachment from reality suddenly sprung back to life, flooding her mind with the smells and sounds of a typical harbour: the stench of the fish drying on the nearby beaches, the clamour of the seagulls screaming for their food overhead, and the salty breeze that tugged at her ears before darting inland towards the carpet of verdant green that blanketed the horizon.
Concordia Forest, Yuka identified, mentally tracing the route that would take her to Underwood, where she knew of a contact who would be able to transport her back to Haidia where she belonged.
I guess… I should be going.
She was reluctant to move from her spot, where she had spent so long in blissful ignorance of the outside world. But the winding cobbled streets and the closely packed houses of the port city beckoned to her, as if they knew she had no choice but to walk their path. The ebb and flow of the tide of purposeful movement all around her seemed to taunt her inaction, goading her into taking up her belongings and joining the queue for disembarkation.
She paused one last time on the edge of the gangplank, a gentle sigh escaping her dry lips in a mournful lament for the fleeting peace she had experienced and then lost on board the ferry deck. But she knew that it would not do to look back, or to dwell on the past any longer.
With no further ado, Yuka set out once more into the dangerous world that lay ahead of her, her feet taking her down the plank of wood and onto the crowded rickety pier that joined the ferry to the city proper.
The young woman was not concerned by the fact that she had to jostle for position as she gradually forced her way towards the buildings in the distance, for she was used to such behaviour in slow-moving mobs absorbed in their own activities. It was the bodies that did not give way in the slightest, however, that finally shook her from her reverie.
<<Hey guys/gals, after spending a good amount of time reading your posts, I am having trouble understanding where/how we are meeting. If you would both kindly be more clear in your next posts, I would really appreciate it. Thanks.>>
"Dyne, my son, you have come as requested." The voice boomed from above, echoing in every corner of the throne room. A golden nimbus settled onto the polished, oak chair in front of the knight, quickly taking the shape of Deus, Lord and Protector of the Universe. While Dyne stood at ease in a navy blue tunic and white cotton leggings, he mentally remained apprehensive at this surprise call from Lord Deus. What could possibly have happened in the universe to warrant this summoning? Ever since Dyne had ascended to Heaven, he had rarely thought of his past life or the world he had left behind. Heaven offered its own comfortable pleasures to help its dwellers forget the pain and suffering of their mortal lives and focus on enjoying immortal happiness together. Nothing short of a world-ending catastrophe could have created the brooding anxiety Dyne saw now in Deus' care-worn face. He could wait no longer.
"My Lord, what concerns you so deeply to need my presence here?"
The deity sighed as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
"My child, as you are aware, I wield great powers over this universe but also great responsibilities to maintain the balance that allows for life to flourish. The seas must be filled with enough water and food for the fish to survive; the land must be fruited and spacious for the animals to prosper; the sun must burn to provide heat and light for all to survive the frost; and the air must be clean and fresh with enough wind for the birds to fly. All four rest in fine balance with one another through the Crystals I set throughout Althanas. These Crystals control each element, allowing me to divide my power in four and permitting me to handle other matters. However, if even one is out of balance, all will eventually fail and break..."
"Lord Deus," Dyne interrupted, "forgive my impatience, but what does this have to do with me?"
"Still impatient despite your age," the deity chuckled, "I will explain it more briefly. Someone has tampered with one of the sacred Crystals, threatening to destroy the world as you once remembered it. A petty criminal masterminded the destruction of the Grey Braves, your former clan, and stole the Wind Crystal. Nothing now remains of the Brave Tower except rubble and dust. Your close ties to this tower and the Crystal mean you alone must retrieve it and restore the balance that is now awry."
Dyne spent a moment absorbing and processing the news. His stay here would be interrupted, it seemed, by the matters below in the mortal world. Still, he could hardly believe someone had the power and audacity to destroy the fruit of his labors. Although his body was still in Heaven, Dyne's mind had already descended to Althanas.
"If it is the will of the people, I shall return and restore both the balance of the world and my honor which has been so viciously stained." Dyne responded firmly. His years in Heaven had aged him greatly so he would appear a knight of thirty-five in the mortal realm, but he remained a fierce fighter, loyal to his friends and merciless to his foes. He brushed back his shoulder-length black hair and asked a final question, "Who and where is the mastermind who dared to destroy my clan and steal our treasure?"
Deus smiled broadly, the aura surrounding his athletic figure radiating more brilliant light than before.
"His name is Max Dirks. You will find him wherever the people are loose and the law is mocked; where alcohol and gambling are easy, frequent pleasures; and dressed in a white jumpsuit and a black trench coat. He is especially dangerous because you will be a mortal in Althanas. If you die below, it is forbidden for me to save you. Yet, this task will bring you the greatest honor of your life by directly serving the world, the people, and me. I wish you the best of luck, my son, for the fate of the world depends on you."
Dyne said nothing, vaguely remembering the name as an entrepreneur he had once heard knew no limits to his extravagance and vanity. He steeled his mind for the hunt; Dirks would hand over the Crystal or suffer the sharp edge of his blade. Deus sensed the readiness in the knight to return to Althanas and clapped three times, each subsequent clap more powerful than the last. With the first, Dyne was armed with his loyal broadsword sharpened and shining as if new. With the second, he was armored in his dark cloak and plate mail, the Blessed Helm, and the Damascus Shield. With the third, he was surrounded by a blinding green light and whisked away to a land he had once wandered far and wide.
===
And now he was here.
"Althanas indeed," Dyne muttered wryly to himself, sniffing the sharply cold, musky air blowing in his face. The golden plains he found himself in were typical of the land of Corone. Still, there was something different about this place. He scanned his surroundings to figure it out. Wherever he had landed, a small town he did not recognize rose in the west and a dense, black forest beckoned to the east. If he was going to find this criminal, Dyne guessed his best chances were in the seediest bar he could find in the nearby town. The knight swept his hair out of his eyes, tying it in a pony-tail in the back, and set out for the black plumes of smoke marking the town chimneys. He needed all of his senses at their sharpest to avoid any careless mistakes.
<<I assure you the delay will be worth it. Summner, I am referring to Jason in the beginning of my post>>
“Of course you didn’t,” exclaimed Max Dirks, Althanas’ most notorious and influential illicit entrepreneur, while brushing himself off. “But then again, you’re not going to see anything if you walk around with your head down. Look around,” Dirks opened his arms gesturing to the busy port town of Serenti. “This place oozes with opportunity…if you’re willing to take it, that is.” The criminal turned back to the young man, who appeared unconvinced or at least entirely confused by Dirks' rambling.
“On the other hand, at least you don’t have it as bad as those guys.” First, Dirks pointed to an older gentleman begging another person to take him to Radasanth. “That guy lost his entire savings, which was to buy his passage off of Scara Brae and back to the wife who abandoned him long ago, in a game of cards.” Then he pointed to a ‘dapper’ young man who was limping along the boardwalk alone. “That guy ran his mouth when he shouldn’t have and ended up with a broken face, a crooked limp, a bruised ego and no friends.” Finally, two members of the ship’s crew walked by, carrying a dead man on a stretcher. “And it looks like that guy didn’t even make it off the ship alive, yikes!” Dirks turned his attention back to the young man and mumbled, “But I didn’t have anything to do with that.”
Before either could speak, a young olive skinned beauty walked off the gangplank and onto the boardwalk. She walked by the two of them and then pushed into the masses trying to make it into the city. “Hmm, that’s the girl from the poker table,” Dirks said, now oblivious to the man he’d just spent a good moment attempting to cheer up. “Well, you know what they say, ‘When in Corone’.”
Ordinarily Dirks wouldn’t be so brash. He would take his time and come up with a clever ruse to properly seduce a woman. In fact, he'd done so the previous night. After the brawl, Dirks told his hostess that he’d single handedly brought down one of the most powerful empires of all times, the Gray Braves. When the two woke up together earlier that morning, the hostess told Dirks she ‘knew he was lying’ but she ‘did it anyway because she appreciated the effort.’ Content with the encounter, Dirks never bothered to tell her his "ruse" was actually true. Things were slightly different this time, though, because if Dirks didn’t hurry he might lose his oriental prize amongst the thousands of dregs in Serenti. That, and he was pretty sure he was still a bit toasted from the night before.
Dirks quickly patted his chest searching for something useful. After identifying his ‘patented’ and ‘twin’ Beretta 950s and his steel dirk, the criminal found something strange. Hidden beneath all of his layers, safely tucked in the pocket of his jumpsuit was some kind of rock. Dirks pulled it from his pocket and examined it. It wasn't actually a rock, but rather a prism. Naturally, Dirks had no idea what it was or how he'd found it. “Eh” Dirks said out loud. He hadn’t worn the jumpsuit in ages, so it probably wasn't anything valuable or he wouldn't have forgotten about it. Regardless, Dirk's window was passing so the trinket would have to do for now.
“Miss,” Dirks hollered out above the crowd, holding the prism in front of his body. “Miss! Oh,” he turned back to the man he’d forgotten about. “This is one of those opportunities I was talking about. Watch this, you might learn something.” Dirks smirked and then chased after the woman. “Miss, I think you dropped this on the ground back there.”
The voice that chased after her in her footsteps simply passed over the distractions that plagued her mind, as she tried to weave her way through a static column of waiting porters and their curtained palanquins. Only after repeated attempts to gain her attention did she finally realise that it was addressing her, and that the polite thing to do would be to acknowledge it. She turned at bay amongst the jostling crowd, fighting to hold her position as if she were a rock lodged against the tide.
“Who are you…?” Yuka asked of the tall, dark-haired, green-eyed man who approached her from the lee of the ferry, raising her voice slightly so that she could hear herself above the busy din. She thought she recognised his features from her recollections of the night before, mingled in the background amongst the patrons and staff of the bar onboard the ferry from Scara Brae. Maybe he had something to say to her about the events that had led up to the brawl… instinctively her guard went up, and her demeanour turned defensive. Allowing her haversack to slide against the back of her legs to the wooden pier planking, she held her staff protectively against her torso, prepared for anything that might happen.
Only then did she notice the prismatic crystal he held out before him as he approached. Vaguely translucent and swirling with mystic energy trapped within the confines of the cloudy glass, it was immediately obvious to her arcanely-attuned senses that the rock was an artefact of undeniable influence over the world. Puissant power pulsated with purposeful potency as it carved a path towards her through the milling passengers and dock workers, pulling the man who grasped it in his fingers through in its wake. He seemed to be offering it to her, as if it was a possession of hers…
“That’s not mine,” she told him before he had a chance to speak again, her dark eyes studying him carefully. She didn’t want to involve herself in another set of circumstances with such potential for catastrophe, but somehow she had a feeling that fate would not be so kind as to leave her alone, either. “Where did you get it?”
Not so long ago, she might have jumped at the opportunity to gain such power. Now, however, she reacted with greater caution and hesitation; she supposed that she had her experiences in the Tournament of Champions to thank for that. Something in her mind tingled in warning. There were too many unknown variables at work, too many potential strings attached.
The more she studied the crystal, the more she realised that it was not something that belonged in the here or now… and the more her stomach clenched in ominous foreboding.
The onslaught left him stunned and dumbfounded, blinking slowly in the bright sun at the back of the man, now quickly hurrying toward the woman he had casually mentioned in the middle of his one sided conversation. He shook his head quickly, trying both to shake the last remnants of sleep from his eyes and to clear his head some what so that he might follow along with the rest of the world. His mind still flashed bright hot images of the nightmare, burning his consciousness even as it slowly faded into obscurity. He stopped shaking his head after a moment, his cheeks puffing; his stomach still hadn't settled itself entirely.
His gaze drifted downward as a wave of nausea overcame him and for a moment, he lost sight of the man, and the woman he was now conversing with. He stared blindly at the planks of the pier, his world slowly starting to twist as the nausea increased. He could feel a pressure beginning to build behind his eyes, spreading out through his forehead and cheeks, and finally toward the back of his head. The pressure climaxed in one explosive moment, and he sneezed loud and violently. His equilibrium, still gripped by the most recent wave of nausea, over compensated for the sneeze and he found himself tripping over his own feet as he was rocked by the sneeze. He heard rather than felt himself crash to the ground, the air in his lungs expelled in a loud 'Hurrahg!' and his violin case was sent skittering across the deck planks like a polished stone on glass. It stopped just inches from the edge, teetering for a moment on its side before thumping back to the ground, away from the water. He would have breathed a sigh of relief if he had any air left inside him. He instead settled for dropping his head heavily to the deck planks, and breathing in quite nosily.
He lay for a few moments, gathering his senses, and his breath, before pushing himself to his feet and moving to retrieve his violin case. Thankfully no one had thought it upon themselves to rid him of the case, so it still lay in the same spot and he quickly shouldered the black plastic, settling it beneath his shoulder blades along his lower back. He looked up to find the strange man and woman still engaged in conversation and thought that perhaps it was time he be gone from that place. He had made his apologies and the man had accepted, if in a strange, outlandish manner. He glanced around at the bustling dock and sighed quietly.
A long time gone indeed, as nothing here so much as peaked his interest. Readjusting his violin case more out of force of habit than discomfort he strode forward on shaky legs, and a still slightly nauseated equilibrium, intent on slipping past the two, now resorting to simply staring into space through one another.
“Oh,” Dirks said in response, careful to look directly into her dark mismatched eyes. They were particularly alluring, unique and mysterious. He'd never encountered any like them before. “I just found it on the ground over there,” Dirks said stepping away. “It must belong to somebody. Hey, is this yours?” The criminal began to question random people as part of the ruse. Most of them ignored Dirks’ inquiries, though some of them mumbled “no” as they walked by. After several attempts, Dirks turned back to the woman and found her eyes locked on the trinket. He smirked. Never give a woman what she wants this early in the game.
Luckily, Dirks turned just in time to see the fellow that had bumped into him earlier walking by. “Hey, is this thing yours?” Dirks asked. The man, still looking dazed said nothing. Dirks grabbed his shoulder and leaned in close. “Hey, help me out.” Dirks whispered. “Can you hold onto this for a minute?” Before the man could reply, Dirks slid the prism on top of the violin case he was carrying. “Oh, there we go,” the criminal said normally. “I knew it belonged to someone.”
Then Dirks turned back to the woman. He waited an extra moment before speaking so she'd notice he no longer had the prism. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to bother you.” Dirks smiled and started to turn away. “Wait a minute. You’re that girl from the poker table last night. The one everyone was fighting over.” Dirks exaggerated. Dirks had only joined the fray because that McCullough guy had spilled his dirty martini all over his trenchcoat. “I’ve never seen a girl rile the crowd like that.” He turned back to face her.
“If you’ve got a minute, I’d love to learn your secret. I've got a couple of hours to waste before my shuttle to Underwood arrives," Dirks lied. "And I'd love the company. I’ll even buy you breakfast,” he added. “I know a posh little spot down the street.
The Green Ox, living up to its reputation as a watering hole for the criminal underworld, always attracted a vulgar, loud, and scraggly following at night. Most dive bars, even the seedy ones, forced their 'clientele' to leave by early morning. The owners of the Green Ox wisely never attempted this to avoid accidental decapitations or other unpleasantries by their heavily armed customers. As a result, the thieves, murderers, and prostitutes frequenting their tavern were often still there the next morning - drunk but still lucid. This was the case when Dyne pushed his way through the rickety, half-broken double-doors above which hung a fading, chipped sign with a painting of a green ox. According to everyone in town, this was the seediest, most lawless bar around.
"Mornin', stranger," called out a portly, bearded man in a stained red jerkin. He stopped cleaning glasses and approached Dyne. "What can I get for ya?"
"I'll have a flagon of your best red wine." The knight responded easily, scanning the room through his peripheral vision. Various inebriated denizens were snoring on the tables around him, a few sharp-looking fellows were sitting on the barstools conversing, but no men in black trenchcoats to be found. The ones who were awake gave Dyne a baleful, suspicious glare or a furtive look to see if his pockets were bulging. Although the morning light had broken through the few windows in the dive bar, the mood in the room was overwhelmingly dark and brooding. To fit in, the knight kept his hood on and his eyes downcast. Dyne made a note of the two exits in the bar, and sat down on one of the stools near the bartender. With his left hand on the newly received flagon and his right quietly placed on the sheathed broadsword, the knight sipped his drink and waited for the impending trouble to come.
If Dirks was here, as Deus had sensed, this would be the one place he could never resist.
Oh no, not again…
Her initial reaction was one of dismay. Why did every other male who looked in her direction seem to want to ply her with such sordid talk? It wasn’t as if she had even shown any interest in him in the first place. Nothing worthwhile ever came of engaging too closely with such people; the brawl of the previous night, spawned from momentary weakness and loneliness on her part, was just a case in point.
“They weren’t fighting over me,” she told him, just about managing to maintain the pretence of unruffled calm. Her task was made much easier by the fact that she was telling a simple truth, something that she knew to be accurate and that she could cling to like a solid rock. “One of them thought he could get away with cheating, but Mr. McCullough had other ideas. That’s all.”
Her gaze flicked back to his empty hands, where the crystal had once been held. This time she could not help the furrowed frown that creased her brow. He had given it away so easily, which meant that either he knew not what power it possessed within, or he was being extremely callous with an artefact of such immeasurable value. In any case, all she had to do now was to walk away, to pretend that this had nothing to do with her whatsoever…
No, I can’t.
Some would have labelled it ‘being nosy’. Her old friends from the Academy back in Nippon had called it ‘the curse of caring too much’. In any case, she couldn’t just sit back and ignore the fact that he had just offered her something that should have been far beyond the reach of any mortal… and had just as quickly rescinded it with nothing short of nonchalance.
“Fine…” Yuka gave in, resigned now to a further delay in her travels. “Let’s find someplace to sit down and eat.”
The young woman then reached out to tap the man with the violin on his bony shoulder.
“You might as well join us too, you know,” she offered, noting his pale complexion and the nauseated totter of his aimless stride. “I’ll buy you something warm to comfort your stomach, if you want.”
She smiled gently in an attempt to reassure him, the first genuine smile she’d allowed to touch her face since disembarking from the ferry.
Glancing away, Yuka stood tall on her tip-toes to gather her bearings, directing her gaze about her in search for the nearest establishment. The violinist didn’t look like he’d make it anywhere distant, and the last thing she wanted to do was give the other man the benefit of choosing the location… she had no idea what he’d do with such an advantage.
“There. We’ll go there,” she pointed with a slender index finger, indicating the nearby rear entrance to a pub that was obviously frequented by off-duty dock workers. A battered sign emblazoned with a green bull swung forlornly amongst the bustle of the crowd, maltreated by its long years of faithful service and now completely ignored by those who were used to seeing it there. No doubt that it would not quite be the ‘posh little spot’ that the first man had promised, but that was even better; she had the confidence that she could handle herself if necessary, and he might be slightly off-put by the change in circumstances.
She gave them barely long enough to gather their wits before leading them through the weathered oaken door.