New Blood Bracket R2: Mikeavelli vs. Wings of Endymion

[Tainted Bushido]

This match begins Friday 9/4/2009 at 12:00 AM and will end on 9/19/2009 at 12:00 AM.

Best Wishes.

[Wings of Endymion]

Another day, another journey, Yuka sighed to herself as she stepped on board the ferry to Corone, the hustle and bustle of the fish market of Scara Brae creating an almost-unbearable din in the background. The polished teak deck planks felt as smooth as silk beneath her light boots, and the banister she used for support whilst climbing to the upper level was equally glossy and elegant. She knew that the interior furnishings of the lower decks – derogatively known as “cattle class” – would be far less splendid. But the successful retrieval of her purse and its contents from the street performer known as Duffy Bracken had allowed her to splash out a little on a private cabin, as well as access to some of the more genteel amenities provided on board the well-used service.

The heavy oaken door closed behind her with a gentle click, and she sank down to her knees in soft carpet, feeling blessedly removed now from the rush of people attempting to board. Her room did not quite qualify as a magnificent affair, although it did have the same exclusivity to it that pervaded the rest of the first class suites and common rooms; the bed was richly furnished with dark oaken frame and lush red sheets despite its small size, the ceiling boasted intricate diamond-patterned woodwork, there was a simple washbasin and hot water for her personal hygiene, and they had even managed to squeeze a combination desk and drawer into the far corner. Apart from the complementary notepad, however, there was little to suggest that she should spend much time in the cabin during the day-long journey. It was obvious that she was expected to travel outside the door, where she would then be greeted by various temptations and services designed to wile away the boredom of the tedious sea journey… simultaneously filling the coffers of the operating company with her hard-earned gold, of course.

Her mind went back to the last two opportunities she’d had to travel on a ship, both times as part of the Cabal-sponsored event known as the Tournament of Champions. Her memories of both occasions were less than pleasant; the first time, she had been forced to fight against a metamorphosing ball of light with a penchant for the gruesome, and the second battle had ended up with her and her partner, the wyrmfolk warrior Lask Ventrist, desperately hanging on to splinters of floundered wood in the midst of a raging storm whilst a sadistic demigod circled overhead, far out of reach of their retaliation. At least, she thought to herself as she stood up again to test the reliability of her sea legs, this ferry is larger and sturdier than either of its ill-fated counterparts was…

There were other nagging worries that were eating away at her mind. First and foremost was the fact that her return from the aforementioned tournament had somehow robbed her of her powers, leaving her with little more arcane aptitude than a first-year at the Academy in which she had studied. Although she had somehow managed to bluff her way through her encounter with Duffy, she was not quite so sure that she would be so lucky next time. And, if he was to be believed, then it was quite likely that there would be a next time… for some unknown reason, she had somehow managed to get caught up in another tournament, this time called the Magus Cup. Yuka sighed as she stored her meagre belongings in their appropriate locations, wondering if she would ever experience a respite from the fighting. At least, she repeated, checking her face in the mirror for signs of stress as she shed her clothing, it’s unlikely that anything will happen on board here…

By the time she had wiped off the sweat and stench of Scara Brae with a hot towel and changed into a new set of robes, the ferry had left its moorings and was just about passing from the harbour into the open seas. The scent of fresh salt wafted in from her open window, along with the callous calls of the seagulls that circled the ferry, and the merry laughter of those socialising on the decks below. The sound of their high spirits made her realise just how narrow and dark her personal slice of the ship was, and it was not much longer before she made the decision to conduct a further preliminary exploration of her temporary abode.

Gingerly Yuka stepped out into the corridor, her dark hair glistening beneath the glow of the chandeliers that lit the narrow passageway. Thankfully it was empty now, the rush of people and baggage having settled into their respective berths. Everywhere she directed her gaze there were doors, doors, and more doors… each tagged with a small gold plate that identified them to their occupant. Hers was ‘16’, and there seemed to be twenty in total on the upper deck.

The young woman allowed her eyes to linger on the ornate craftsmanship that characterised each and every detail of the furnishings, on the golden frames and scenic landscapes that hung between each doorway, and on the intricate details designed to put each and every passenger at ease. The plainness of her white robes was at stark contrast to the opulence of her surroundings, and she couldn’t help but feel slightly lost and out of place. Even her family back home in Nippon, well-off merchants by any standards, would have been slightly embarrassed to find themselves surrounded by such extravagance.

“… oh well,” Yuka sighed once more, shrugging off her insecurities like an unwanted cloak. It was not every day that she had both time and money to spare, in what was essentially the closest she would ever come to a luxury cruise. She practiced a smile, determined to make the best of what promised to be an extremely brief holiday.

Behind her she could hear again the voices of those who had not been able to afford the luxury of a private cabin, wafting upwards through the staircase that led to the lower decks. Which meant that the more muted voices in the opposite direction – to her fore – were those that came from the common room for the first class passengers.

Bravely she advanced through the archway and into the bright light, preparing herself mentally for what might be there.

[Mikeavelli]

Winning is really the worst in this businesses, the more you win, the more you get thrown around like a rag doll, compelled by the unseen hand of a mysterious magus to do his bidding whether you want to or not. Granted, he didn’t have much of a choice with the last one, the little elf that didn’t even want to keep going through this nonsense, but at least she could have put up a fight.

The summoning was easier this time. He wasn’t caught unawares in the middle of the forest on the lam, but it was never a pleasant experience. Imagine, if you will, a hole the size of a field mouse opening in the middle of your gut, followed by an impossibly strong hand gripping your insides, and twisting until you’re pulled all the way through. Graciously, it didn’t look like that to anyone observing from the outside, and he even retained the presence of mind to keep his glamor up as he popped into his new environs. Some inconvenient questions might have been asked if the room hadn’t be filled with dullards without the strength of mind to notice a man appearing out of thin air. To everyone present, he just came into view at the edge of their vision, walking out from behind a support pillar here, a wall there, or even just materializing out of the crowd.

His first thought upon taking in the sights and sounds of the room was, at least, my instigator has better taste this time. Everywhere there were beautiful people, men and women of high class, dressed in the finest silks, the sort of humans who just reeked of that better than you attitude. Thick tapestries depicted battles long since won, or exquisite patterns woven by master craftsmen a world away. A grand piano dominated the center of the room, being played by an obviously skilled performer to lend a cultured background to the celebration in progress. Great glass windows showed a striking view of the outside, they were sailing down a swift blue river a great distance from the shore.

These beautiful people were engaged in the endless pastime of wealthy humans, comparing the size of their fortunes. Three men sat around a circular table playing a game of cards with more gold resting on each individual hand than could be found in some small towns, women in dresses that managed to simultaneously feign decency and advertise their assets bragged about how much their suitors had spent on their precious jewels and other decorations. Everywhere was an exercise in extravagance.

And, through the main entrance stepped the crown jewel of them all, an exotic woman from a land so foreign even he had rarely seen one like her. Had the wide-eyed look of someone still unused to the realities of the world. Still naïve. What little impulse control he had was swept away with the singular thought, I want her.

Which is why his heart broke to pieces when his instructions came. It was one part of the summoning magics that brought him here in the first place, whatever heartless magi kept pulling him from place to place had the power to compel him to perform some service while he was summoned. It was in his nature as a being more magical than man that he could be compelled like this, and no strength of mind could allow him to willingly go against his summoner.

It was simple, and direct. Nothing was spoken, his puppet master had never deigned to appear before Patrick or contact him directly, but he knew the will of his master. That woman, the light in his darkness, the diamond in this rough, heartless world, the new love of his life, must never arrive at her destination.

He didn’t know if his unseen master was listening, but wizards of the power and skill to toy with him like this could easily be watching, even overhearing his thoughts. It was worth the effort to think loudly and clearly his response, to the deepest, darkest hells with you, I’ll do what you want, but I’ll be doing it my way.

Inspired now beyond all reason, Patrick raised himself tall and proud, forcefully drawing the attention of the entire room. Where he’d come in unnoticed only moments before, heads turned and eyes locked and every mouth in the room was whispering to each other, “Who is that man?” It was no accident, but neither was it a legitimate force of personality, they simply had no choice but to notice him. Their own minds and his magic constructed the fine details of his clothing and appearance to be the most appealing man they could imagine. At the end of his walk, dozens of eyes burned with jealousy as they saw him walk straight to the foreign woman in the entrance, and extend his hand, “Hello, miss...?"

[Wings of Endymion]

Her heart pounded loudly in her chest, once, twice, and again. Her eyes simply could not resist being drawn to the figure in the centre of the room, the one who was the subject of so many covert… and some not-so-covert… gazes of admiration. Her face and body both froze up in complete awe, but that didn’t prevent the delicate flush from creeping into her cheeks.

He was the perfect gentleman; there was no other way that Yuka could phrase her first impression. His tuxedo was worn immaculately and without flaw or blemish, as if moulded to every discreet line of his leanly muscular frame. The bow tie at his neck only served to emphasise his handsome features, from the keenness of his brow to the height of his forehead, from the strength of his nose to the perfection of his chin. He wore glasses, but did not hide behind them; they were an understated advertisement of his obvious intelligence. His eyes were a brilliant green that steadily observed her every move, while his black hair was carefully combed and sleekly held back from his face. His voice was soft velvet on her ears, making even the mere thought of a reply seem coarse and desperately clumsy. And he approached her like she was a princess out of some fairy tale, gallantly extending his hand and stopping just short of simply sweeping her off her feet.

Whatever welcome she had been prepared for, it was not this.

Belatedly she realised that every pair of eyes in the room seemed to be awaiting her response, in a confusing swirl of emotion that ranged from clandestine envy to blatant antagonism. The women at the bar counter were eying her in blatant jealousy, the gaudy jewellery and tacky dresses they wore marking them as heiresses or wives with far more means than she… not exactly the type of people that she preferred to make enemies of, for she had some idea of the extremity of the measures they could resort to. The other men all seemed to be struggling with the idea that their charms were clearly inferior to those of the gentleman who had just addressed her. Dominance issues aside, the threesome playing cards especially seemed to want to make their grievances known; one of them in particular, a grim-faced wolf with a pock-marked complexion and a shrewd glint in his steely eyes, was eying the pair of them almost menacingly. The ivories in the background took up an ominous, dangerous tune that echoed in stark contrast to the light-hearted prance of earlier, the skilful pianist reading the situation accurately and reacting accordingly as only a trained performer could.

“Yuka… Yuka Kanamai,” she finally managed to reply, unlocking her tongue from its enraptured stupor. Without realising it, she’d allowed him to back her against the elegant wallpapers with her hands trapped behind her, the very likeness of a hunter and his enthralled prey. Her body was held as taut as a bowstring as she looked up at his face, warily wondering what his next move would be.

Ooooh… boy…

Her natural sociability reasserted itself just in time, only to discover a detached portion of her mind staggered at the meekness of her response. Ducking away out of reach of the dapper gentleman with a sudden bright smile and a burst of light laughter, she bowed to him as a male of her homeland would do to an equal, wondering if he’d catch on to the subtlety of her greeting.

“And, good sir,” she questioned in return, the merry twinkle in her eye underlining the mock seriousness of her tone, “what may your name be?”

[Mikeavelli]

“You have a beautiful name, Yuka… It suits you.” He couldn’t kiss her hand as was the custom here because she’d never offered it, in return, but it took only a few moments before he realized, just as her features were foreign, so too were her customs. After a moment’s hesitation, he bowed in return to her, trusting in his glamour to cover up the obvious inexperience with the finer points of the gesture.

“As for myself, I’m Patrick McCullough. Now that we’ve been introduced, would you like to share a drink? You’ve obviously come from far away, and I’d love to hear how you’ve come here.”

[hr]

Gods, could this kid be any more of a putz? This is unbelievable, he’s just throwing out lines that should make her laugh him off the boat, and she’s buying it! Am I the only one that sees this? No, someone needs to teach this kid a thing or two…

That ‘someone’ was Tom “Grim-faced wolf” Flannigan. Tom never did fit in well with these upper-class types, having made his wealth the old fashioned way prospecting out on the edges of Scara Brae. He was one of the precious few men lucky enough to stumble across a vein of gold in the mountains, strong enough to fight off he fellow thieving prospectors, and smart enough to keep it all from getting stolen by the more cultured thieves most people call “businessmen,” that currently surrounded him.

He’d spent his time on the cruise so far avoiding their kind as much as possible, taking money from the blue-bloods in card games. They were, in Tom Flannigan’s mind, the best way short of a fistfight to really tell the character of a man. You can tell what kind of risks a man will take, whether they’re stupid or smart ones, and whether or not he’s a dirty cheater. He knew full well the sort of man who’ll cheat in a friendly game over a couple hundred coins is the sort of man who’ll stab you in the back the moment he thinks he can get something for it. In short, all the things you need to know about a man you’ll be doing business with.

It wasn’t long before the pair passed near the card table, and Tom took the chance to call over to them, “Hey there stranger, interest you in a friendly game to pass the time?”

“Not right now, maybe a little later?” Patrick replied off-handedly.

Tom wasn’t about to let him walk away that easily. His eyes met Patrick’s for a brief moment, they were the sort of eyes a wild animal circling around for the kill might have. His next words were in a low, outright threatening tone, “Son, come in here real close for a sec. I’ve got something you might wanna know.”

To his credit, no fear showed up on the young man’s face, just… Curiosity? As if he HAD to know what Tom could possibly threaten him with. He stood to look pretty damn foolish if he was wrong about this, but it was an acceptable risk. When Patrick’s ear was right up next to Tom’s mouth, he whispered in, “These folks might be dull as a river-rocks, but whatever trick you pulled to get up in here ain’t enough to fool ole’ Tom Flannigan. Know what would happen if they found out you was a stowaway up here?”

“Alright then. You have a bet in mind, Mr. Flannigan?” Patrick’s response confused the hell out of Tom. His tone was still smugly confident, like a man who still had an ace or two up his sleeve waiting to play, or a cat playing with a mouse before it heads in for the kill. The words he used were only the sort of thing he’d say if Tom were absolutely right about Patrick not belonging here.

He didn’t let it shake him, just made things more interesting. “Simple enough, we play four hands here; winner is the one who’s won the most at the end of it. You win fair and square, I don’t say nothing more. Hell, I’ll even cover for ya if someone else notices your lack of credentials. I win, and you leave, without yer’ new girlfriend.”

“So that’s what this is about.” Patrick smiled, and backed away, looking over to the foreign woman he’d been trying to tie around his little finger, “Yuka dear, Tom here has been very persuasive in inviting us to play a little game with him. Have you ever played Poker before?”

[Wings of Endymion]

Viscount Trajan Tiberius Cornelius Wickinbottom, or simply Troy to those whom he was acquainted with, leaned back in the plush crimson settee ¬¬and languidly observed the scene. Second heir to a wealthy minor title in Yarborough, southern Corone, the blonde-haired blue-eyed young man considered himself to be a paragon of masculine perfection and excellence, and everybody else who tried to emulate his style as simple effete fops… not realising that ‘effete fop’ was exactly what most other people thought of him.

“I don’t see what she sees in that fool,” he remarked offhandedly to the third member of the table, having realised a while ago that the pockmarked wolf-face Flannigan was no conversationalist. His words just about concealed his boiling jealousy, and the fleeting consideration that such an exotic wife would make a grand trophy in the royal courts…

“Indeed,” the stout man dressed in breeches and tailcoat replied in deferent acquiescence. If Tom Flannigan was a wolf, then Rupert Mercer was a fox: Viscount Wickinbottom’s dutifully loyal butler, who had spent the majority of the evening attempting to recoup his master’s losses and had just about succeeded in keeping them within manageable limits. Dark haired and green eyed, his cheek was marred by a vicious scar obtained in a knife fight some ten years ago. Combined with his naturally dour demeanour, most people chose to steer clear of antagonising both him and his charge.

“Do you think that I should go over and interrupt?” the viscount asked his manservant with a lazy flourish of the fine brandy held in his left hand, reaching for his case of snuff with his right. Rupert did not respond immediately, eyes narrowing calculatingly as Flannigan stood up wearing a devilish look of pure intent.

“I doubt that shall be necessary,” he advised, knowing that the chances of recouping his master’s losses increased exponentially with the arrival of fresh participants in the card game. And Tom Flannigan was not the only one who had noticed the bizarre manner of the dandy newcomer’s arrival.

***

“Just Yuka will do,” the young woman replied, fixating first Patrick and then the wolfish card-player with a brilliant smile that didn’t quite hide the caution in her eyes. She didn’t like being patronised, she didn’t welcome the manner in which the rougher man had approached them, and she especially didn’t appreciate people withholding secrets from her. For the moment, though, she decided that she would continue playing the role of a dutiful consort… if only to find a way to squirm out of a rapidly growing whirlpool of intrigue without hurting anybody. No man, no matter how handsome or attractive, was worth that much trouble.

“I know the basics of the game, although I’ve never played competitively,” she told them politely, her mind harkening back to her schooldays and the interest some of her friends had expressed in pastimes from the foreign west. “I don’t know if I’ll be any match for you gentlemen.”

Demurely she allowed herself to be led towards the low cocktail table, stopping just short of letting either man to take her by hand. A single stack of cards, beautifully backed and letting off the distinctive crisp scent of freshly exposed ink, awaited their arrival alongside the remaining pair of players. Yuka was conscious of their eyes studying her closely as she approached, and she appraised them frankly in return, not afraid to let them see the dispassionate cool of her interest.

“Ah, a pretty flower to decorate the evening,” the first of them stood up, making a courtly bow that was extravagant and pompous to the extreme. Exquisite as it was, it lacked all of the sincerity that was the hallmark of a bow in her country, and that had been present even in Patrick’s attempt. It was a shallow bow, an artificial bow, that gave away much as to the foppish young man’s self-centred intentions.

You can always tell somebody from their bow… she remembered one of the many lessons that her mother had drummed into her when she was younger, fearlessly making eye contact with first him and then the other man. Harsh, calculating eyes of dirty green stared back at her from the latter, now doubt envisioning her value to him as an asset. Or their lack of one.

Yuka settled into the soft seat they offered, composing herself to ignore the piercing daggers that stabbed into the back of her neck and the haunting melody that the pianist was now tickling from his ivories. Antagonistic audiences and hostile surroundings were nothing new to her, and neither were the looks of intense lust and loathing.

“I am Viscount Trajan Wickinbottom, and this is my manservant, Rupert,” the young man announced, plastering a grin all over his slightly thin features. The cuffs of his fine robes were stained with snuff, and he had obviously consumed a bit too much of the brandy that lay within reach, so slurred was his speech. “I suppose that you have already met Tom.”

“Pleased to meet you, gentlemen,” Yuka replied, briefly looking to Patrick for support. She couldn’t really bring herself to trust any of them, especially since she had known them for all of a minute and they were already after her money, her company, or worse. But it was clear that of her four new companions, Patrick was the only one who even remotely seemed to care for her well-being. “Perhaps you could remind me of the rules of this game, for I confess that I am slightly rusty.”

Despite the adrenaline that flowed through her system at the tantalising taste of danger in the air, not to mention the rush of blood to her face as she basked in the presence of so much heightened emotion, she began to question her decision to leave the privacy of her room. It was true that there was little danger of a tournament opponent stumbling upon her here… but it had just struck her that there were other dangers in the world that she had rather callously ignored. And since she could not count on her powers to aid her at this moment in time…

She was going to have to play her cards carefully. Quite literally, in fact.

[Tainted Bushido]

Mikeavelli's inability to post in a timely manner disqualifies him. There will still be judges notes on this battle.

Wings of Endymion Advances.