Oldbie Bracket: Roht Mirage Vs Taste of Treason

[Silence Sei]

Matches begin May 7th 12:01 AM CST. Good Luck!

[Taste of Treason]

There are days that I can’t quite remember how I ended up here. I don’t mean the overall journey. I am quite clear on that. My parents were neglectful, I was reckless, end of story. I mean the tiny choices made each day that somehow matter enough to change the ending. The decision to let your only friend in the world travel without you. Where would I be had I followed Steppenwolf Orlouge to the ends of the map? The decision to trust that a stranger on the street will keep his word and come to your aid when the time is right. Will I ever even see Zack Blaze again? The decision to take a back alley to the market where you just happen to run into a shopkeeper who smells mildly of chemicals and is looking for some part time help. I guess that’s really all it is, random decision that lead you to a tiny back room in a rundown shop full of oddities, living off scraps.


The rain stays out, at least that’s new. Most of my nights have been spent huddled beneath an unoccupied stand in the market or against a stranger’s door, this is certainly a step in the right direction.


I awake to shouts. It isn’t anything new, Po’s wife never did quite understand why the man needed a teenage girl living in the back room. I mostly avoid her, but her shrill voice is difficult to ignore. I hear my name yelled in the midst of a string of profanities and I suck in a deep breath before I start to sing. I don’t have to be outside to know that clouds are beginning to form. The sky turns gray and thunder rumbles in the distance. Soon the pitter-patter of rain will drown out the shouts and I will hopefully regain at least a glimmer of my dream. I vaguely remember a majestic castle and thousands of cake pans filled to the brim with delicious baked goods. I wonder if chocolate tastes as wonderful in slumber as it does when awake.


Suddenly the sound of a gunshot fills the air. I jump and without considering my options stream from my pallet on the ground and hide behind a pile of broken weapons in the corner. On some level I know that any person with eyes can see me through the cracked polearms and worn muskets, but somehow I feel safer. I glance around the small space though I already know every cranny of the room. I’ve been here three weeks, and the room is hardly large enough to sleep in without my legs or head against the wall. In each spare inch are piled broken display cases and scraps of things that were once useful. The door opens with a high pitched squeal and a slam as the handle hits the wood.


Po’s face nearly turns to a smile as he sees me, cowered behind a bunch of weapons that even if repaired I wouldn’t know what to do with. He recovers quickly, pulling his shirt down to cover the small firearm in his front pocket. There is blood on his hands and it leaves a trail against the material as he moves. His face is red.


“I’m gun need ‘ya to watch the place for a bit.” He looks questioningly at something in the hallway before continuing, “I shouldn’t be gone more than a couple hours.”


He doesn’t wait for me to respond. This is the deal, I live here and I don’t ask questions. I probably wouldn't have asked about it anyway, at least I won’t wake up to that voice anymore. I wait until his footsteps and the dragging sounds stop before I move from my hiding spot.


I take a quick glance at my clothing, which is only just beginning to yellow. I shrug to no one in particular, good enough for one more day. I hear the front door slam shut and am almost tempted to see exactly how Po expects to carry a body down the street in broad daylight with rain falling, but I decide a quick peek in his cupboards is far more interesting.


I pass through the actual shop, bobbing and weaving to avoid becoming impaled by the various ‘collector’s items’ strewn throughout. I’ve often wondered how the man stays afloat as customers are a rarity, but somehow he does.

I find a small half-loaf of bread that is only just beginning to green around the edges and tear off the mold. I eat it quickly, as I always do, still afraid after all the years that someone will take my last bites. I rummage a bit more, hoping for some of the goodies I was denied in my slumber, the store completely forgotten.

[Roht Mirage]

Astarelle's heart pattered as rapidly as the rain drops. Her head swam from the rush. Staggering, she reached out one hand to catch herself on an awning pole.

Just thunder, she chided herself. A voice deep down seemed to argue the point, but she wrote it off as a combination of imagination and memory. Her fingers twitched against metal. Somehow, her hand had ended up in the pocket of her baggy brown coat. Fingers kissed the piece of metal that, only that morning, had kissed her heart. Something so small, she mused, not for the first time, can cut straight to the core. The bullet from one of Sei Orlouge's men had delivered a faux-death and a real message. Whether it was a message from the mute himself or just the zeal of a browbeaten Leopold Winchester, she could not say. Either way, it had struck with a force alien and an oppression familiar.

The door beside Astarelle creaked open, making her turn and blink through the curtain of water before her hood. Two paces away, over a covered table of delicately painted pots, hunched a woman with face as rough as her wares were smooth. Seeming to not notice Astarelle, she looked down the rain-soaked, patron-barren street. There was concern in her sunken eyes as if she had also heard more than thunder in that last blast of sound. Her head shook warily. She tsked. Then, she looked to Astarelle and recoiled in slight surprise.

“Does anything interest you, dear?” the small woman asked, gesturing to her wares with a practiced wave and an anxious shaking of her wrinkled hands. She clasped them together over her belly, and they stilled.

Astarelle cast her eyes over the pots. Some were painted in abstractions of flowers, others with small woodland creatures. All tolled, the spirited whimsy of a meadow lay before her, frozen in clay and surrounded by one of the Bazaar's more unsavoury districts. Gingerly, she ran her knuckles over the rim of a small vessel bearing a sparrow in flight. Her fingers travelled past the rim, feeling the smooth interior texture of the clay.

“Or are you just taking a rest from your swim?” the vendor added gently.

Astarelle smiled through the obfuscation of Coronian white over her honeyed brown Fallien features. She nodded, then adjusted her hood to keep the shape of her face vague under its sopping, droopy edges. “A rest, yes,” she said in a clipped voice not her own, “Then on to the next shore. They really are lovely, though.”

The old woman bobbed her head. “Thank you, dear,” she said, then sniffled quietly.

“Go inside,” Astarelle told her kindly, “No need for you to take ill.” The elder nodded meekly and turned, only to halt as her lips parted. A hand pointing to her door made her intentions clear before she even spoke. “No, I'll be on my way,” Astarelle said promptly, “My shore is a ways off.” With a small wave, the merchant disappeared into her shop. Astarelle continued on, mouthing to herself, “And I will reach it, no matter how hard I have to swim.”

Over the dancing watery skin of the cobblestone, she walked in careful strides toward a building four slots beyond the pot seller. At a point two shops distant, she could finally make out the sign. “Po's Battlefield Whispers”, the sign announced over an image of a gilded sword thrust into a mound of spoiled earth and set before an obscure war banner. Below the swaying sign, the door bounced open, revealing the wide posterior of -she assumed- the proprietor Po. Walking backwards, he struggled to drag a large sack. Splinters of wood and husks of food refuse peeked from the unsealed top, though the bottom of the sack sagged with something far heavier than either.

Hitching his hoodless coat tighter, then doing the same to the neck of the sack, he pulled it toward the alley beyond his shop. The angle gave him a glimpse of Astarelle's huddled form. She could feel him looking as she pretended to watch her feet, giving every indication that her destination was well beyond this district. He disappeared around the corner of his building, though she could still vaguely hear his grunting over the staccato of the rain.

Astarelle took her time drawing even with the shop, then the alley mouth. Po -if it was indeed him- was nowhere to be seen in the narrow space. It was just a gray scar; sheets of rain falling from the rooftops and uncollected garbage festooning either side of the mouth. Po's burden was not among the trash.

After a quick glance up and down the street, Astarelle doubled back to the door of Battlefield Whispers. Her wet hand seized the handle, turned quickly, then eased it open for fear of a bell above. However, there was no welcoming chime, and an even less welcoming atmosphere beyond. The shop was dim, even for the gloomy day. The dark panelled walls were adorned with blades and armor in a state of dusty degradation; edges chipped, plates battered. Where other shops might advertise the promise of victory, this one revelled in the memory of it. Perhaps, as well, in the memory of defeat, for the lower shelves held far more unsavoury treasures.

Astarelle let the door close behind her and moved deeper into the room, body hunched as if her sodden coat was unnaturally heavy. Watching her were bestial masks, battered insignias, torn banners, and even a razor-toothed skull that, according to the plaque, was draconian. She gave all the items a wide berth, for they looked less like displayed wares and more like lost artifacts still in their tombs, traps and lost spirits in tow. She realized that the back of the shop was better lit – all the easier to count coin. The counter, at a glance, seemed abandoned. If she was after said coin, it would have been simple. Instead, her uneasy steps brought her to a display case to the left of the counter.

Under a layer of glass, on a bed of red velvet, a silver revolver lounged like a duchess. One brilliant treasure among the dank, dusty refuse of horrors gone by. Beside it, five bullets stood to attention on a piece of lacquered wood in the same formation that they might fit into the gun's cylinder. Astarelle brushed a hand down the glass. Her nails scraped softly, then caught on the plaque at the bottom of the frame.

”Revolver of the Crimson Courtesan

In years past, a concubine with hair crimson was said to prey upon the wealthy of Radasanth. She would lay her way into their graces, then their manors. There, she would kill them and escape with their most prized possessions. As many as seven men died before she was captured, tried, and hung before the-”

Astarelle stopped reading. Her hand clenched at her side. It's a new day. A new story. Golden sand stirred in her sleeve.

[Taste of Treason]

I give a quick sigh, there is no chocolate. I am just considering crawling back into bed and letting Po throw a fit if he likes when I hear the sound of the door clicking shut in the shop. My stomach grumbles its protest at so little food and as always I ignore it, surely one day it will learn that I have so little control of its constant misery. I take a moment to make sure there are no crumbs on my lips and make my way down the stairs that lead back to the shop. Po's living quarters are nothing impressive, though one less person in the space will certainly offer him more room for whatever it is he does. The stairs are steep and the walls are a yellowed white that is cracking in more places than not and I run my hand down the tiny fractures as my feet creak against the wooden floor.

I can just make out the figure of a young girl as I enter the shop. Customers are so few around here that for a moment she looks out of place amongst the merchandise that I pause. Her eyes are focused upon a display case that Po keeps quite polished. I don't know much about guns, but apparently this one is something special. The rest of the shop is tattered clothes and dusty shelves, but this revolver is pristine.

"Pretty isn't it?" I say the words because it feels like that is what a proper salesman would say. A proper salesman would probably also know what was in their shop and be able to walk through without leaving a cloud of dust in their wake, but for now some good wording would have to suffice.

The girl tenses at the sound and her gray eyes lift toward mine. She wears a large coat the color of dust that makes her frame seem incredibly small. The coat drips on the floor, mixing with years of neglected cleaning and creating brown puddles on the stone floor. My eyes follow the trail of water to the doorway where a wall of rain is framed by the glass door like a moving painting. She doesn't speak for a long moment and I almost question if I spoke at all when she seems to regain her graces.

With a nod of her head and a shy smile the stranger finally spoke. "Hi, I'm looking..." Her eyes don't quite meet mine and her voice trails off for a second. "I'm looking for some dehlar bullets, please."

It isn't our usual wares, ammunition can be purchased at any booth in the bazaar. Most who come to this shop are looking for things they can't find just anywhere. "I um..." Now it is my turn for an awkward pause. I vaguely remember seeing a couple boxes upstairs, though I'm not sure if I'll even know steel from dehlar. "Let me see what I can do."

I give another awkward smile and turn to make way back up the stairwell. I reach the landing and pause for a moment before entering Po's bedroom. There are a stack of boxes against the far wall next to a stack of books and a pile of unclean clothing. The bed is disheveled and the green blanket is covered in bright red blood that is just beginning to dry and darken around the edges. I reach the wall and crouch, opening the box and picking the cool metal casings up. I give up almost immediately on figuring out the metal and decide to hope she's as clueless as I am.

A crash fills the air and I very nearly jump into the blood-drenched sheets to hide. Instead, I stupidly leap into action like some sort of idiot with a hero complex. Even as I half stumble down the steps I consider letting it go. Only my desire to keep a roof above my head pushes me onward.

The girl is gone.

Of course she is, I knew that the moment I heard the breaking glass. What I didn't know though, was that Po apparently loved that gun more than I'd ever realized. The room before me is full of glass, a splay of blood, and at least three dozen bees. I stare at the scene in confusion, "what in the-"

Suddenly another crash reaches my ears, this one from outside. For the first time I realize that the door is closed tightly. Why would she take the time to shut it behind her? I take hurried steps and turn the cold knob before bracing myself against the rain and wind. I am dressed in a simple cotton shirt and shorts, certainly not ready for the elements, but curiosity and fear pushes me onward. I search the empty street for any sign of movement. "Where did that sound come from?"

[Roht Mirage]

The mouth of the delicate sparrow pot flickered with the blue light of a pendant that had been surreptitiously slipped into it minutes earlier. Distant lightning flashed, and in that instant the glow spread into the shape of Astarelle's hunched form, as well as a revolver and bullets under her sand-encased hands. Another instant, and she was there in the flesh.

“Bees?!” Astarelle stammered. The bees were bloody incomprehensible. She had already been surprised when the glass -through some purposeful and cruel design- shattered directly toward her face. The hungry crystalline teeth had bitten deep lines across her cheeks, missing her eyes by what felt like a few lashes and a lot of luck.

Suddenly, she jerked as something jabbed her in the neck, then in the collar bone and as well as under one sleeve. Her feet slid on the drenched cobble. Her chest crashed down upon the table.

Also made real in that sorcerous leap of blue: a dozen stowaways.

With a thousand brittle screams, the old woman's wishful meadow crashed to the street. Astarelle was once again showered by shrapnel. Only this time, it was blunt and adorned with plucked flower petals. “Bury me,” the destroyer breathed as she scrabbled about in the wreckage. The gun was still locked in a grip that would have been pale regardless of her disguise. The bullets, however, were scattered among the small murals of splinters and sparrow bits.

“You-” gasped the old woman as the door creaked shut. Her voice was trapped between anguish and astonishment, and it put the stingers to shame.

“I didn't...” Astarelle began, faltering when she failed to come up with a single event in the last few minutes that wasn't born of something she did. She seized a handful containing two bullets, the pendant, and who knows how many clay chunks, then capered to her feet. The woman's eyes locked on the revolver as it gleamed wetly in another flash of lightning. Astarelle jammed both hands and their contents into her pockets. “Sorry,” she tried to say. The rumble of thunder muted her, and a moment later it set her in motion.

She ran. Wet stone threatened every step as unseen stingers played a concerto in her sleeves and under her hood. Yet, her mind was on neither, only the buildings as they splashed by and the stabilizing weight in her pockets. The pendant's gem was cold, drained, the revolver even colder. She could hear, in the slap of every footfall, that unstoppable note from Leopold Winchester's gun. In every heartbeat, she felt the bloody crimson bloom he had seeded. The bees found their way into her pockets to harass her treasures, an assault that she countered with a skidding turn and a full-body roll into the maw between two buildings. She took the full force of the rising street, but so did the bees as they squished against her.

“Blasted bees,” she seethed triumphantly as she came to a stop against a sopping wet sack, “You have no idea how many black scorpion stings I've taken.” Her punctured hands lifted from her pockets gingerly, and she used both to cradle the revolver. Her heart didn't slow. Instead, it fuelled a quiet fit of giggles. “I did it. Bury me, I did it,” she chanted in a whisper as she rolled herself over to sit on a spread of newspapers that were soaked nearly back to pulp.

The rain-speckled weapon reflected her smile like a hundred twisted mirrors.

[Taste of Treason]

I see movement in the distance on the barren city street, a splash of color in the gray of the storm. I cannot be sure if it is the girl and I nearly turn back to my simple life when I notice a figure in a nearby doorway. The years of her life are clearly marked in the lines of her face and her dull gray eyes focus in the same direction mine had only moments ago. Her features are contorted in an expression of confusion and pain, though from her state I assume the second is a constant. Her eyes scan the area and she sees me. Without a word she moves to tuck herself safely inside her shop once more.

I run, a mixture of curiosity and the urge to sleep in a warm dry bed pushing me forward. The rain is slow, but it takes only a few moments for my clothes to become heavy and begin to stick to my skin. Perhaps I can put off washing for another day or so. My feet slap against the cobblestone, water splashing against the back of my calves with each step. It feels good to run, and the familiar rush from a bit of adventure fills a part of me that never quite feels satiated anymore. I miss Steppenwolf, I miss adventure, I miss freedom and chaos. The thunder cracks again and the sky fills with a bright light as I reach the alleyway where the figure turned. I skid to a stop, only just avoiding a fall onto the street. I catch myself with one arm and a sharp pain fills my finger. I let out a squeal before I can think better of it, no doubt ruining any chance at a surprise appearance.

I bring my hand close to my eyes and find a tiny stinger embedded there. My heart beats hard inside my chest as I peel back the skin and pull the item from my skin. It leaves behind a tiny drop of blood and a spread of swollen skin. I refocus my attention and take slow careful steps down the dim alley. Suddenly a thought fills my mind. The girl stole a gun.

I don't know how exactly I ignored the obvious for so long, but the reality hits me like an airship. I am quite likely walking toward my death. Still my feet move forward. The alley extends only a short distance and a wave of relief and confusion hits me when I realize no one is there.

I chuckle under my breath, "Welcome to my life".

I turn to leave the alley, pack my things, and hopefully get out of the shop before Po returns when I hear heavy breathing. I stop dead in my tracks.

"Shit!" The word escapes me without consent. I pull my hand to cover my mouth far too late and turn slowly. Every half second seems to stretch for an eternity. I can't quite decide whether to close my eyes and wait for the inevitable or not, and I end up with them half squinted as the girl comes into view. My heart threatens to escape its home through sheer over activity and my stomach is filled with the weight of a thousand dinners I never got to enjoy. In a voice much braver than the one it comes from I speak.

"I'm going to need that gun back." And please, not just the bullets.

[Roht Mirage]

Astarelle made a show of glowering at the girl. The gun was secured in both hands and pointed squarely at her. Just as she had seen Leopold do, she pulled back the hammer. Her arms thrummed with venomous, itching electricity. Her finger felt big and heavy against the trigger, though it hadn't even begun to swell yet.

“You are not getting it back,” she informed her, the voice almost alien and heavy with a power she hadn't felt before. This was one weapon that, merely drawn, could end a fight. Hopefully.

Her head suddenly cranked to the side, followed by one hand slapping to her face. The other kept the revolver shakily trained on the poor drenched thing. “Who in depths designed that case?” she asked, immediately interrupting any answer with curses as she scratched out a spike and its deceased wielder. The flattened, fuzzy corpse danced in the rain that plinked upon her hand, then was washed away. The insect had succeeded in its quest, perhaps knowing that it would be the last act of its life; or more depressingly, perhaps completely unaware.

“Go home, Little Bee,” Astarelle commanded. Her hand swiped across her brow to rid her of the blinding mix of blood and rain water. “Tell your father that you never saw the thief, or tell him that you tried valiantly to stop a big strong man from robbing your shop. Use your sad eyes. Hell just be glad you're safe.”

She had heard somewhere that fathers were like that.

[Taste of Treason]

I've never put much stake in the old Gods. I mean I suppose on some level I believe, but I've always known that what the Gods make, man makes better. The Gods made land, but man built houses and churches and taverns to make it worth while. The God's made mountains, but man turned them into habitable places where they could be safe. The Gods made me, with filthy blue blood that would send me on a path of destruction and self-glorification just like all the other Mystics. Man cured me. For the first time in my life, as I look down the barrel of a weapon that could end it all, I picture the flying glass shield of Mystic protection and I wish man had left well enough alone.

The girl stops though, her head tilted in either curiosity or a case of nerves. I hope for the latter, as I'm not sure if she's curious about my existence or what it will look like when she ends it. The rain bears down on us, and the girl begins to look different. I blink hard. For the first time I can see her eyes clearly, a perfect match to the gun she holds steady in her hand.

For a moment I think I recognize her, but just as quickly I lose the memory. "He isn't my father. My father is dead."

There I go oversharing again.

She stands perfectly still though, perhaps I should continue. I probably would have anyway.

"I'm an orphan," I leave out that it's by my own hands. "Po took me in, gave me a roof over my head, which is more than I've had most of my life. I don't really care about the gun, but if I don't have it when he gets back, I've no where to go."

The girl seems to consider this, and I consider leaping toward the weapon. We both decide the idea is shit.

"Don't make up stories. I've come up with a thousand that are better than that one." Her voice is cold, calculated, but laced with something I can't quite place. The rain patters against the buildings around us, a chorus of droplets that can only lead to the big moment I'm already dreading.

Then I see it. A marking just above her eye. In an instant anger fills me. I've seen that face before. I've used the paper it was plastered upon as a pillow more than I care to remember. "I've been scrounging through people's leftovers my entire life. I finally have something decent going here and an Ixian princess is going to take it from me? The winnings of the Cell could buy you a hundred guns! Just let me have it and go back to living your prestigious little life with the filthy Mystics!"

She moves quickly, her hand darting to her pocket and scrounging for something. I watch mesmerized, frozen in resentment and bewilderment. Then there is a flash of light. The lightning hits a silver bullet in her hand. It isn't even loaded.

I leap. This may be the last chance I have.

[Roht Mirage]

She knows, Astarelle's mind droned faster than her fingers could move. Bury me, she knows.

The blood, the rain, and her disguise of pale sand ran around her eyes, weighing heavy on her lashes as she tried to divine the contents of her shaking hand. A helpful flash of light fell from the sky, illuminating the metal versus the pottery. She rolled one through her fingers and jammed it to the gun's unhinged cylinder as the thunder sounded. The bullet bounced off the opening. It was deformed; the bullet Leopold had left in her.

A metal-wrought signature of ownership. Why had she kept it?

The girl's small hands were suddenly on the gun. Astarelle tried to grip it without losing the remaining two bullets in her fist, when a slender shoulder caught her in the chest. The breath was forced from her lungs, as were her feet from the slick cobble and most of the trinkets from her hand.

“Go back to your castle,” Little Bee gunted with venom. Or, maybe she was pleading. Astarelle could make out scant more than the words alone as rain sheeted from the rooftops and her heart pounded in her ears.

“I've lived in nicer castles,” she growled – her voice was all venom, “And nicer cages.” She jumped back to dislodge herself, but slipped on the old, pulpy newspapers. Down they went, both shouldering the fall just to keep their grip. The pale sand from Astarelle's hands washed down over the gun and both their wrists. She tried to summon more from her sleeve to seal her grasp, but it dissipated under the force of falling water and a gust of wind that had appeared from nowhere to bite coldly against her fingers. What in the depths... she thought numbly. They struggled, laying in the alley garbage, their height difference evaporating. She met the girl eye to eye and saw desperation, but also concentration. The crafty little bee was up to something.

As their hands splashed back and forth, silver flashing through the rain, Astarelle tried to brace herself up on some unseen yet stable piece of refuse. The same gust of wind pulsed around her, stealing the brace and planting her flat on her back. “It's you,” she said, then sputtered as her mouth filled with water. She rolled, using all her strength to pull the gun and the girl's thrashing body with her.

“I'd rather die than spend my whole life fighting Ixian fights,” she hissed between coughs. “I need this, incase.... incase....” Uncomfortable, unfathomable scenes played in her head. If that happened, she wouldn't need to fire. They wouldn't force her to. They couldn't.

[Taste of Treason]

The sky above begins to clear as I concentrate on keeping the girl’s attention away from the gun. We are both soaked through and rolling around in dirt and discarded filth. The realization hits me at the same time as a cleverly placed elbow, Here I am fighting the winner of Althanas’ biggest bloodbath.


Any normal person, upon such a realization, would throw everything they had into staying alive. I am not a normal person though. And I, Cellar Door, let go of my opponent like her skin was made of hot coals


She moves quickly and I find myself just struggling to reach my feet. My wind is gone from attempting to match her strength and I know I’ve very little left to give. I hear the click of the bullet sliding into place and I lift my eyes to hers.


“I’ll always watch after you Cellar." A familiar voice fills my mind. The first time I’ve ever felt cared for. The Adventurer’s Crown, moments after declaring my fear to Steppenwolf Orlouge.


I barely register the words escaping my lips. My eyes are closed tightly and my arms hang limply at my sides. “Please, just keep me safe.”


I picture the gentle giant in my head. Happy that at least I can die with the face of my only friend in my mind. He answers just as I knew he would, just as he did all those months ago as he carried me through a living maze that threatened to swallow us whole. “Just hold on to me and it will all be over soon.”


I feel a tear escape my eye as I imagine his arms around me and wait for the shot.

I am afraid. But I trust his words.