Veteran Bracket: Wilhelm Bosche vs. Shadar

[Tainted Bushido]

The match begins at Midnight 7/31/2009 and ends at Midnight 8/15/2009.

Best wishes to both participants!

[Shadar]

Bunnying will be discussed before posting and can be assumed legit.

The age-beaten senior hunched over his work, oblivious to the line that grumbled and sniffed for a whole city block in Radasanth’s fierce summer sun. His fingers milled slowly about the hilt of a sheathed sword, a blade that was more rapier than anything, but the man certainly would not have been able to lift it on his own. His fingers creaked and groaned from the tying of an invisible knot around the top of the sheath. He finally signalled his completion by dropping his arms and smiling in wrinkled satisfaction. The finely dressed doorman, formerly holding the sword for the old mage to ply his spell, handed the weapon back to its owner, Lord Gavin Macgowan.

Unbeknownst to those standing in the courtyard of the Lieselotte Family Manor, this guest was only Gavin Macgowan today. Any other day, he would be known simply as Shadar, and the slightly plump woman on his arm, Lady Genevieve Macgowan, would have otherwise been called Brigitte. But, today, with the Macgowans’ invitation in their possession, that was who they were.

The path that had brought them to the antechamber of one of Radasanth’s most revered buildings certainly wasn’t the stuff of legends. The pompous tarts here might even sniff at it. Imagine, two immortals wandering the land, not doing good or raining down evil, but poking in mailboxes. They had learned many things about the Radasanthian upper-class in the last few nights; what publications they subscribed to, what weasely relatives had to say in hopes of securing inheritance, even what objects they considered too uncouth to purchase in public. More investigators than thieves, Shadar and Brigitte had pocketed none of it until stumbling across the invitation, and the overflow from their box implied that the Macgowans wouldn’t be available to partake in the Expedition Antiquities of Althanas’ first visit to Radasanth. A pity, that. After a quick peek in the estate, purely to research the family portraits, the two were well on their way to entering the fabled Lieselotte Manor wearing the Lord and Lady’s own skins… illusions of them, at least.

“Let me know if you start feeling sick,” Shadar whispered as he leaned over Lady Macgowan’s arm and the voluminous feather shawl that hung from it. The true Lady herself would never have gone out in public with such an obnoxious accessory, but the illusion of it did well to hide Brigitte’s true nature. The same could not be said for the illusionary multi-layered dress and footwear, which did little to hide her strong stride and the click of talons on marble.

“I’m fine,” Brigitte responded, her harsh voice spilling from the classic Macgowan face, narrow from the purported elven heritage, soft and pouty from too many maids and sweets. She seemed to blend in, though, and more surprising, she seemed to like it. The woman’s thick shell kept men’s objectifying eyes from her pervertedly sculpted body, sparing her the shame that her creator had wanted her to endure. Shadar’s guise was simpler, an aged sheen to his ageless skin, a darkening of his hair and a pinch of his face. It felt like all illusions; like nothing. But, he somehow felt claustrophobic in it.

You’re the one who‘s getting sick, snapped a voice in Shadar’s head, where the dream demon known as Diamond Jackal resided, his eternal irritant and Brigitte’s cruel creator.

Shadar didn’t bother to engage the demon in an internal dialogue. Firstly, it would only annoy him more, and secondly, Jackal was right. Spying on the rich snobs’ mail had been a stealthy mud-in-your-eye gesture. He would never have imagined it landing him neck deep in the fools. But, if the invitation was to be believed, even slightly, the trip would be worth it.

Treasures unearthed from the greatest of Althanas’ tombs and dungeons, magical artifacts that have given rise to kingdoms and wealth from the heavens, as well as the latest information on tomorrow‘s most astounding discoveries, he repeated to himself as he and his lady moved to the outskirts of the main hall. It took a full minute to do so, the room was that expansive and crowded. A total of twenty thick columns were needed to support the roof. Great marble oaks, sprouting lit sconces for branches. The trek took them crossways through a herd of strolling nobles, and not a stitch of clothing touched in the intersection. The true upper-class, it seemed, could walk around an obstacle without the slightest acknowledgement of its existence. Shadar bit his lip, he had been an assassin for most of his pre-immortal life. How was he less surefooted than them?

The first table they came to did not raise his spirits much. In an almost altar-like display was something called The Sword of the Eternal Tap. Its curved blade shone with a rainbow of colors as if the source of magic truly dwelt in the metal, but only when one shifted their head did they get the rippling effect of that supposed internal power. Shadar had spoken to smiths before about the technique of coating a blade in glass to increase lustre, a practice so impractical and expensive that it was rarely done. However, with an auction later in the evening and so many walking purses about, the proprietors of this little show would get their money back five fold.

Brigitte seemed to enjoy the colors of the forgery, but Shadar towed her onward, and in doing so took them within arm’s length of one of the attraction’s guards. He looked as stately as the doorman, dressed in the thick black and crimson ruffles of the Lieselotte Family’s crest. But, he was clearly as transient as the inventory on display. His eyes gave it away; cold, weathered orbs looking toward the coins at the end of a long road and burning through any troublemakers who got in the way. Shadar unconsciously brushed his free hand over the sword at his hip. It was nothing but a prop fashioned after a blade that the Lord had been painted with, and it seemed to fit even more snugly in the sheath than before. An experimental tug revealed that the old mage’s magic was far more genuine than the exhibits. No doubt, the guard’s own sword had not received the same treatment, so the odds were stacked in their favour. Or so they thought.

Shadar’s false face reflected the wry smirk on his real one as he imagined what damage he could do should the rest of this ordeal prove fruitless.

[Wilhelm Bosche]

Standing out was a new sensation for Wil. His whole life he had blended into crowds of similarly dressed, like-minded citizens making their way through the thousands of identical streets and archways of a sprawling metadimensional metropolis. With a gate that could open to an infinite array of worlds, the inhabitants were all human, moreover all a specific race that had homogenized over the centuries. Blond hair and blue eyes, while still present in about a fourth of the population were the rarest traits present, and Wil had both. But that was a mere eccentricity of genetics. No one ever stared at him, not the way the old wizard stared at him now.

"Let me see your invitation again," he muttered in a tired voice. The line behind Wil let out a collective exasperated sigh and began turning to one another with looks of displeasure. "Wilhelm Bosche, Uiria University Historian? Do they not pay you enough to dress for the occasion?"

Every person around him seemed to be on the verge of creating a scene, but none of this bothered Wil. He was prepared to accept Althanas, his new home, the good with the bad. He snatched the forged invite back from the old man and slipped it into a pocket beneath his leather armor. In a sea of frills and adornments, he was dressed in a plain cotton undershirt and breeches with his brown leather guards still fasted securely.

"If your patrons really want to gamble on the authenticity of the artifacts, they're welcome to do so. I'm sure they have money to burn. As for me, my time has been paid for whether I work or not, so I'm happy to be on my way," Wil smiled and feigned a turn for a mere second before the old man relented.

"Get inside, but first give me that tacky weapon on your hip," he grumbled and cast his binding spell over the blade, securing it to its sheath. To Wil, the concept of security was one of many strange historical curiosities that his new home featured. To be sure, there were guards in Architelos, but they were more statuary than security, men and woman that derived some pleasure from standing endlessly still in suits of glistening powered armor as a reminder of military glories long past.

These thoughts occupied the traveler's mind as he walked briskly past the entryway and into the exhibition proper. The collection displayed therein was a stunning assortment of items from weapons to house wares, all of it heaped with history and prestige. Wil's eyes danced over the stalls gleefully as he tried to settle on a goal. Should he delve into the rich history of this land, or take the chance on something even more exciting, finding an artifact of his own people nestled within the detritus?

It was the first time, and far from the last, that he would long for a piece of technology from his homeland. As with any man on vacation, Wil had forgotten a great many things, the significance of which only became apparent once they were gone. This time it was a scanner, a simple instrument that would separate wheat from chaff and save what could be hours of eye-straining.

There was nothing to be done for it, he thought, and resolved to wander until something specific caught his eye. Whether it was Eudaemonian or just a curious bit of history didn't matter. Everything here was an exciting new opportunity, a carnival of discovery.

[Shadar]

Clowns and children, Shadar stewed. His fingers rapped upon the corner of an ornate table, carved facsimiles of flora crawling up the legs. The crowd pressing against this one had halted his and Brigitte's circuit of the room.

Excuse me?

It's all an expensive circus. Just look at them. He gestured toward the nobles just inches in front of him, and he earned a few awkward glances for it. One young brunette in a forest green, high-necked gown, clearly misinterpreting it as a greeting, made a slight curtsy. Shadar diverted his eyes toward the trinkets on display before she could start a conversation.

Unlike the exhibits near the front of the hall, their supposed value obvious just by their names, these ones were tended by hawkers. They weren't the street variety, of course, with their immaculately tailored suits and glowing smiles. They didn't even perform any actual transactions, leaving that for the evening's auction. Their only task was to spin tales, and by extension, loosen purse strings.

"Are you interested in this piece, milady?" asked the nearest, aiming his barb-tipped words at the woman in green like an angler lining up his cast. He lifted an impractically large amulet from its velvet bedding and present it for viewing as gingerly as if it were made from sugarcane.

"It's very lovely," the young lady agreed diplomatically. Shadar glanced at her as she spoke and noticed that she was only now turning away from him. Was his illusion slipping? He hastily refocused his mind's eye on that portrait of Lord Macgowan. Long nose, faint lines -definitely not laugh lines-, and a tempered bitterness in the eyes. He certainly felt that way at the moment, so it was unlikely he had broken character.

He looked toward Brigitte in case her guise was faltering. It was, but not from his lack of concentration. Her head was tilted to the point that her ear nearly touched the thick shawl over her shoulder, and her eyes, false as they were, still managed to shine with the curiosity of a child.

"Nose up," Shadar reminded her quietly. Brigitte turned to him, somewhat startled. He smiled and leaned closer, whispering, "Act like there's a horrible stink on the floor and you need to get your nose as far away from it as possible." She took a moment to consider, then set her head in a position that made Lady Macgowan's pouty features look completely at home.

Shadar nodded and turned back to the hawker who clearly was a master of his craft. He had done nothing but hold the amulet up to the light, tilting it slowly to find the perfect angle that brought a sparkle to the young woman’s eyes , and just like that, she was happily chewing on the hook. “There’s quite a story to this piece,” he began with sweetly baited words, and many of the nobles at the table fell under the same spell. “Two generations ago, it belonged to the Jya, or Queen, of Fallien. The sole ruler, the stories tell of her as a stern, yet gentle woman and a courageous leader.” The young woman’s eyes sparkled, seeing in the multifaceted gems, perhaps, a strong mother figure that had been lacking in her childhood.

Shadar winced and turned away. The skill with which the hook had been set was enough to make him jealous, and the story itself may even be almost true, but if he looked at the woman’s face a moment longer, he’d slap the stupid clean out of her.

“Come on,” he said as he turned to Brigitte. She looked down her nose at him, and her illusion’s face smiled with what was, no doubt, a proud grin underneath. “Good girl,” he chuckled. They left the rapt crowd and merged with the sea of festively coloured gowns at the center of the room. Momentarily, a flash of brown caught his attention, and Shadar stepped toward it without thinking. It quickly disappeared among the gilded bodies, though, leaving him to wonder if he had just seen a pigeon among the peacocks.

[Wilhelm Bosche]

A few minutes perusing the items on offer dulled Wil's enthusiasm. Most were as gaudy as the surroundings, all flash and no significance. Even the historical tales meant to entice people were short-sighted. Jewel encrusted swords were the ceremonial weapons of ancient kings, amulets were worn on the day of coronation of some great dutchess. Wil would much rather see a rusted iron dagger that sealed the fate of a deposed emperor than the velvet nightgown he wore in the peaceful days of his early reign.

"What a waste of time. None of these histories are even worth verifying. Even if they were true, they wouldn't add anything to the items. Their value is entirely wrapped up in the materials. There's no substance to any of them," he complained aloud, half hoping to be kicked out.

A few eyes turned to him but little more. Most seemed to glance at him only long enough to show that they were aware, but intentionally ignoring him. Wil sneered at them as long as they were willing to look. In Architelos, snobbery was common enough, but there was truthfully little alternative for those who were ambitious. The social hierarchy was the only significant challenge left. Everything else was provided on a silver platter. Here, one could be so much more than a cloistered noble. It was frankly sickening that people would make the choice willingly. He felt like a man, born blind, listening to the sounds of the sighted gouging their own eyes out for fun.

"If you're looking for something meaningful, come right over here. Not so old as some of these trinkets, but with more history in a few short years than some bejeweled goblet will ever have."

The voice came from a stall crammed uncomfortably into a corner, completely empty of wares. Things were set up such that it would receive virtually no foot traffic and with the attitudes of the people here, if it didn't absolutely jump out and grab them, they weren't going to put forth the effort. The man sitting behind it wore a white robe immediately recognizable to Wil, but probably just foolish looking to any of the ignorant nobles milling about. It was a Makarios initiate's robe, second rank by the blue collar. The man wearing had the right skintone to be an Asiatic Eudaemonian, but it was difficult to be sure, so Wil decided to keep his mouth shut. For all he knew, the vendor stuck a knife between some second rank initiate's ribs and looted the rest of his wares.

"Well then, go on," Wil said. It was all he could do to remain cautious and reserved as the merchant drew a length of polished silver metal from under the stall. It was a couple meters high, shaped like a spear. Wil recognized it immediately, but allowed the man to explain, hoping it would give a clue to his intentions.

"Ever heard of the Corone Invasion?"

"Can't say as I have," he said as calmly as he could manage. His hand was already twitching anxiously behind his back. Wil had read every single report ever written on it, a spectacular strategic blunder that nearly destroyed Eudaemonian civilization.

"Few people have, even here in Corone and only a couple decades back. This was the opening salvo of the conflict, a transmitter that projected a message from Director Bosche to all the citizens of Corone, requesting their surrender. Still works, even."

The man looked old enough that he could remember that. Perhaps one of them simply fell into his back yard, Wil imagined. He waited, as the vendor placed the transmitter back under the table and produced a weather-worn metallic hilt. As he went on to explain it, he began speaking in heavily accented but surprisingly articulate Eudaemonian.

"Probably a lot of people could tell you this is an energy sword, but I can tell you who owned it: Belial Mephisto, first born son of the late Executor. Still tuned precisely to the resonance frequency of his father's blade," he mused and ignited the blade, producing a sharpened stream of arcing plasma about the same length as the sword magically jammed in Wil's sheath.

"Twenty-seven point nine," Wil responded. It was one of the few superstitions he knew Arius to have. Resonance frequencies have virtually no effect on a blade when used in battle, but no matter what blade he used, state-issued, stolen, or self-made, it was always set to that frequency. "You obviously recognize me as a Eudaemonian if you're telling me all this, in my own language no less. How many of us are there here?"

"Us nothing. I'm an Althanian conscript. Made second rank initiate with the Makarios before they collapsed. Haven't seen another Eudaemonian since then, except the Mephistos."

All reservation was impossible at this point. "You've met them!? I'd have thought they'd all be dead by now!"

The old Makarios man raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Arius died a few years ago. His son isn't even your age."

Wil continued to inquire about the man's expertise with increasing excitement, slowly unraveling the startling time difference between the two planes. Thirty years here amounted to centuries in the Eternal City. As the two conversed, they drew more and more dissatisfied looks from the high-society types. To their ears, the two shabby looking men were speaking nothing but gibberish, and unpleasant sounding gibberish at that.

[Shadar]

Three tables away from the street-clothed pigeon, Shadar pretended to look over a display of shirt blades and armour pieces. "You have an appreciation for practicality, don't you sir?" offered the moustachioed hawker hovering over them, "These articles are enchanted, used in actual combat, you see.” Shadar’s eyes stared blankly at the repainted guards and chipped blades as he tried to listen to the conversation from the bare corner table. The man across from him, clearly expecting some degree of awe, pressed harder. “These armguards,” he lifted the pair and presented them under Shadar’s nose, “were used by high ranking Rangers not more than a few seasons ago. They still hold the enchantment to ward off projectiles.”

Shadar raised a hand to them as if they might burn him, but his fingers only tingled. “It’s fading,” he sniffed. While there was indeed love up into the creation of the guards, far more than the supposed amulet of the Jya, as well as enough energy from previous owners to slightly repel his hand, he doubted that the guards had protected anyone in years. Proper enchanted armour, well serviced and well trusted, would have borne so much of its owner’s own aura as to openly resist his possession. These pieces, however, pushed back as half-heartedly as old men abandoned to slow decay by their children. Whatever enchantment remained could be equalled by tossing a moderate purse at a magically-inclined blacksmith, and a freshly crafted weapon wouldn’t carry the depressing weight of neglect. “Make sure they go to someone who will give them a purpose again,” Shadar said sternly as he made eye contact with the surprised vendor. Then, he drifted away before the man’s curiosity found voice.

With only half a mind paid to the hawker, he had kept an ear on Pigeon’s conversation, and alien words like “transmitter” began to pique his interest. He tried to approach casually at first, but soon gave up when he realized the stall was receiving more attention than the crowd’s wide berth implied. All around him and Brigitte, there were sideways glances for the leather-armoured lad and the robed man. Perhaps the nobles were concerned that fashion criminals were joining together to form a gang.

What was that about a transmitter… thing? Shadar asked his demon. Despite how well he made himself at home in the back of Shadar’s mind, Jackal had once existed in a plane where he could view and toy with all worlds. There seemed to be not a single anomaly, on Althanas or otherwise, that he didn’t have some information on. The trick was determining if his insight was useful or irrelevant off-world nonsense.

Some junk about sending a message to all of Corone, Jackal responded distractedly, But I know I remember that Bosche name from somewhere… His raspy voice faded as he scoured his own eternal memory.

Suddenly, the two began gibbering at each other. Heads turned incredulously and steps slowed. Shadar actually made contact with some wide dresses as he pushed to the very edge of the border that had formed between sophistication and uncouth weirdness.

“What are they….?” Brigitte began, Shadar’s sudden interest making her anxious.

Jackal belted out the answer so forcefully that Shadar’s head rang. I remember! They must be Eudaemonians!

Shadar pressed a hand to his forehead. Ewwdemon what?

A different world. It’s a screwed up place, so bloody peaceful that if they didn’t take field trips to other worlds, they’d have swallowed their own tongues long ago just to escape the boredom. I used to haunt their dreams, but they were too easy. You make a few hundred Eudaemonians pee their jammies, and the sport’s gone out of it.

A bladeless hilt in the vendors hand suddenly sprouted a thin stream of white-hot flame, and Shadar would have peed his own pants if his body still had that function. He was still capable of producing drool, at least, and that he did with gusto. “That!” he hissed urgently to Brigitte, “That is what makes this whole pointless trip worth it.” His face-splitting smile distorted the natural lines of Lord Macgowan’s face, and the crowd around them stepped back as if Shadar’s enthusiasm was both infectious and fatal. Only Brigitte remained at his side, bobbing up and down as the second-hand joy hit her brain. Her stoic masked looked just as ridiculous.

You think that’s impressive? Phaw! They’ve got garbage like that laying all over the place from old wars.

Shadar’s only response was a guttural impulse, roughly translating to, Me want. He strode forward so quickly that Brigitte’s feathered arm left his and crooked up to her side in a bird-like pose, very unbefitting of a Lady. She clicked along a pace behind him, her head tilting to look around his shoulders.

“Tell me how that works,” Shadar demanded the instant that he reached the table and planted his palms on it. His eyes flicked from the young man to the vendor, burning with a sense of entitlement that would have made the nobles applaud if they weren’t trying to find a dignified way of removing themselves from the bizarre scene.

[Wilhelm Bosche]

"What did the Makarios want with you anyway? No offense intended, but those people aren't exactly the most accepting sort, and records from the Civil War are as spotty as they are unreliable," Wil continued. The real treasure was not the blade, or the transmitter, or anything else the man could possibly fit hidden under his stall. This Makarios ex-patriot was a priceless find, the sort of thing historians had dreamt of since time immemorial.

What if a Twentieth Century Terran could interview a man who still recalled the world before the steam engine? Or a Renaissance scholar capturing the recollections of a man who had seen the glory that was Rome? Or a medieval Pope speaking with a man who had actually seen the Christ? Perhaps the silly superstitions could have been put to rest earlier, Wil thought. So many holes in mankind's knowledge, missing pieces of the puzzle, and here was a man who could fill one of the dearest such omissions to Wil's heart.

"If you really want to know," the man was visibly flattered. It was clear that Althanians took little interest in his alien abduction stories. And he had certainly received little respect from the Makarios. What information the Directorate released painted them as brutal mind-benders, indoctrinating their followers through severe and invasive neurological procedures. "I was a young upstart psychic on a little island in the western sea. They picked me up and told me I was a 'psion.' Sounded real dignified then, but they may as well have said slave."

Just as their conversation was picking up, a man rushed up from the crowd and interjected himself. He seemed to fit in with the rest pretty well, except that he showed more than a disdainful interest in what was going on in this neglected little corner stall. The Makarios vendor looked to Wil to give an answer as turned the blazing energy blade ever so slightly toward the intruder.

"If things get ugly, I am trained for this sort of thing, you know," the man scoffed in his rusty Eudaemonian and rubbed his temple casually with his free hand.

"That won't be necessary. Yet," Wil answered him, before clearing his throat and continuing in Tradespeak. "I could explain it to you, but it would just waste your time. I just bought the whole of this man's collection."

He flashed a smile and extended his hand as his voice took on as formal an air as he could manage in a language he learned only from scattered reports. "Wilhelm Bosche, Uiria University Curator of Antiquities. And you are?"

[Shadar]

Oh, that’s just lovely! Remember kids, when you have a question… just run up and bitch slap the answer out of the guy!

Shadar accepted the man’s handshake limply. The rapid chain of outburst, regret, and finally utter relief at the undeserved politeness left him too dumbfounded to speak. Even his thoughts were muddled for a second. Maybe he really is from a peaceful world, he managed to piece together, though referring to the world as ‘peaceful’ had to be an understatement. This man seemed to shake off Shadar's brash attitude, bare as it was in that moment, and remain totally composed, even friendly. The Ai’Brone themselves, emotionless bastards, would have been awed.

When Wilhelm released his hand, Shadar found his voice again. “Sorry for that, sir. I was… very impressed. I am Gavin Macgowan,” he said in the tight protocol-steeped voice that he imagined would fit with a face like the Lord’s. “And this is my wife, Genevieve.”

Shadar glanced toward Brigitte as he gestured, finding her head once again tilted curiously, though her wide eyes registered shock. What the…

Jackal had an answer immediately, which he relayed as best he could between huge guffaws of laughter. Wife! You hit a button. I bet she’s been waiting. Ball-less knockoff immortal, do you take this harpy to be your-

Shadar tamped the demon into the back of his skull and awkwardly looked away from Brigitte’s eyes. “Don’t break character,” he whispered in an illusionary voice that went straight to her ears and no one else’s. Dutifully, she righted her head, and a hint of sadness leeched through the mask. Shadar didn’t want to deal with it now, though, not with a whole pack of nobles aghast at the rudeness of one of their own. He could feel their disgust pressing into his back like cloud of wind-blown cinders. Fortunate, then, that he wasn’t able to sweat.

“As I was saying,” he said quickly so as to cut the awkward moment short, “That technology is… fascinating.” He could have used other words; words that would have shattered any dignity that he retained. If I could just have five minutes alone with that weapon…

That’d burn some orifices.

What?

Jackal sent Shadar a mental picture that would make grown men weep. Oh god… he retched. His face paled, though he didn’t know if it was visible through Macgowan’s age-browned skin. With a considerable effort, he scoured the image from his mind’s eye and tried to continue the conversation.

“If you would allow me to examine the sword,” he offered with sincerity that, by virtue of his disguise, seemed more suspect than he would have liked. “A few minutes, that’s all. I’m more experienced with off-world technologies than you might expect.” He smiled knowingly. With his eyes still on Wilhelm, searching for signs of suspicion in the man’s tranquil face, he held his palm out toward the vendor as if the robed man would simply offer him the glowing blade's hilt.

[Wilhelm Bosche]

The man who spoke to him seemed significantly preoccupied, but Wil could not even begin to guess what might be floating through his alien mind. The world of Althanas was full of strangeness above and beyond that documented by his predecessors and he would not even presume to understand a fraction of it. What he did learn from the reports, and the Executor's autobiography especially, was not to trust Gamma Spacers who were fascinated with Eudaemonian technology.

The Directorate had no high-minded ideals about non-interference, the transmitter was proof enough of that. They had waged an all out war on people who, aside from their magical arsenal, had technology commensurate with the Terran Dark Ages. No, it had nothing to do with philosophy or the responsibility that comes with superiority. It was a purely practical consideration. If you have a gun and another man has a stick, you're only in charge as long as those conditions persist. In Arius Mephisto's exact words, "Do not give these hairless apes our guns."

Wil smiled politely as he remembered that passage and took the hilt from the vendor's hand without objection. The man eyed him suspiciously for a second, wondering if he really was going to just turn it over to this stranger, but his fears were quickly assuaged.

"I do not mean to question your veracity, sir, but if you were truly familiar with the technology you would realize this to be an unspectacular specimen. Nothing more than an energy core and a focusing matrix, it's really textbook construction," he spun the blade a bit about its axis and then extinguished it with a flick of his wrist, pocketing the hilt. "If you suspect otherwise, I'd be fascinated to hear your proposal. Perhaps the University might even offer you a visiting professorship while you study our artifacts."

Wil raised a hand to excuse himself for a moment as he turned back to the Makarios vendor and whispered to him. A reflex, volume aside, the odds of anyone in this crowd understanding Eudaemonian were approximately the same as being spontaneously struck by lightning on a clear day.

"Do you have a storage buffer you can put these things in? I think it would be best to be going soon. Perhaps we should pay the Mephistos a visit, eh?" he suggested quietly in the tongue the two shared.

The Makarios simply nodded and produced an object the size of a briefcase from beneath the counter. He pulled the tablecloth from his stall to reveal nothing else sitting beneath it, and took up a stance behind Wil. The Eudaemonian took the object in hand, confident at the bountiful contents stored within its compressed phase space.

"I'll be headed back to Uiria, I think. The auction of these remaining trifles will be tiresome, don't you agree Mr. Macgowan?" he switched back to his stilted Tradespeak as he turned back to the stranger. "You and your lovely wife are welcome to join me, if you have no further business here. I do hope you have transport though, it's quite a trek."

[Shadar]

He doesn’t trust you, Jackal growled.

Shadar, lost in observing the smooth hum of the energy blade through the air, didn’t respond immediately. If one could get close enough to the sun, that would no doubt be the sound it made. Even the dousing of the blade seemed powerful and foreboding as the hum shrank into silence. The energy clearly remained, one gesture away from flashing violently to life. And he hadn’t even seen what the blade could do, yet.

Wait, did he just invite me along… to a university full of that technology? It seemed preposterous, especially after Shadar’s failed attempt at tech-talk left him looking like the usual Althanas bumpkin, and a scheming one to boot. That’s-

Pretty damn stupid, I know. Beats me how his people don’t get themselves killed off-world more often, the demon said suggestively, to which Shadar found himself smiling. While he didn’t plan to make full use of that vulnerability, at least to the point Jackal implied, it was comforting to know it existed.

“I’m feeling sick, now,” Brigitte suddenly whispered in his ear. She pressed her body to his arm and lay her head on his shoulder warily. He still felt the heat of disdain pressing in from the crowd, and Brigitte was a far more sensitive creature than him. It was a wonder she hadn’t mentioned it sooner.

“Don’t worry. We’re leaving,” he said as he took her feathered arm and led her in the wake of Wilhelm and the vendor-turned-ally. No one impeded him, as the elite gave Wilhelm a berth wide enough that Shadar only needed to travel down the corridor of airborne noses and whispered disgust. Brigitte’s closeness to him, still with her head leaning toward his shoulder, only intensified the gossip, but Shadar was beyond caring. He had already found the only decent plunder that lay under the Lieselotte Manor’s vaulted ceiling and vaulted egos.

Even the case carried by Wilhelm interested him. Shadar hadn’t missed the oddity of that being the only other item in the vendor’s supposed ‘collection’, and it held no mystery for him. Storage in disparate space was a technique that he understood far better than he pretended to understand energy weapons. He could only wonder, out of honest curiosity as opposed to the usual megalomania, how different their mechanisms for achieving the same thing really were.

As they neared the door, Shadar remembered the mage’s spell of sword binding. Now that the event had proven fruitless save for one avenue, the old man’s trick seemed an appropriate souvenir. Shadar pressed a palm to the sword at his hip. His hands were presented as bare to match Lord Macgowan’s preferred attire, so the crowd did not behold the added oddity as the oily material of his glove rippled and drank the prop sword into the void beyond. To their scavenging eyes, the sword seemed to simply disappear, drawing only a few more exclamations than the entire uncivilized incident so far.