((The events preceding this thread can be re-capped, if required, in The Gnarled Roots of Osiris))
He had been watching his various opponents around the table carefully. Shinsou smiled before calmly gazing down at the cards in his hand and contemplated his next move, placing his hand face down on the table and tapping two fingers on the reverse of his cards. He knew, underneath his palm, there were three separate cards, completely unrelated in both suit and order, with the potential to lose him his thus far respectable pot.
But he wasn’t at all worried. Experience told him that he could have had the worst hand in the game, but it wouldn’t matter one bit if he could apply the correct pressure on the other players. Judging by the intelligence of some of the knuckle draggers at the table, it wouldn’t be a particularly difficult task to convince them they were languishing at the very bottom of the pecking order.
"HA HA HA! Would you look at that!", A thick set, heavily bearded lumberjack to Shinsou’s right exclaimed, throwing his hand face down proudly down and slamming his fist triumphantly on the table, sending tremors through the room. “I’m taking this pot all night long, boys!”
Shinsou glanced casually at the mound of copper and silver in the centre of the table. Predictable. This pot is mine.
It should have been difficult to focus. Within the steady hum of idle chatter came the regular thump of boots pounding into the creaking timber floorboards; interrupted only by the crescendo of clinking glasses and the cheers of the revelling crowd. Indeed, some of those seated around the table started to lean in, cupping their ears to catch the bets as they rose. One folded accidentally, not realising the bet was lower than he thought. However, Shinsou sat, his cards flat against the wood, with a cool expression.
“I bet you don’t have higher than a pair, do you big man? Let’s see if you have the balls to play. I raise you fifty.”
The calm expression never left the former Telgradian emperor’s face as he threw in his lot, pushing his silver towards the pile. Fold after fold followed in a clockwise motion around the table, until it came back to the lumberjack.
“HA HA HA! I don’t think you have a thing, boy, and if you don’t have at least a flush you are done here! So I raise a hundred!”
Shinsou, not perturbed by his failure to sway the lumberjack, tapped his cards.
“You better think before you match me. The timber trade’s a little slower than usual these days with all these storms, and you look like you need the money. Two-hundred."
Tossing his own cards face down in reply to the meaty man’s taunts he shut out the laughter around him. The lumberjack looked flustered, and hesitated. A lot of money was on the table, a months wages for him, and he knew his own hand was a slight bluff, a king high pair. His opponent had to have at least a flush to throw in two hundred.
It took a moment before he decided to cut his losses and abandon his bluff.
“Grrr. You got fuckin’ lucky that time. What did you have?”
Shinsou smiled. “Five high.”
The lumberjack slammed his fist into the table, and exited to raucous, mocking laughter.
You can all laugh, but he’s human, same as you. Shinsou thought quietly to himself. By the time tonight’s done I’ll have had you all paying for my board here.
Taking the deck in his palm, after sweeping the coin mountain into a leather bag next to the table, the victorious Shinsou tossed cards back and forth until the next game was set and ready. However, as he was about to deal the next game, a tap on his shoulder distracted him. He turned his head and shot a glare at the hooded man stood over his shoulder.
”What? I’m playing here.”
The hooded man was unfazed. From beneath his brown leather robes, he handed over a beige, folded note, and walked away without a word.
Shinsou looked around the table, and sighed, placing the deck in front of the man to his right.
“Excuse me.”
He got up from the table, slinging his weighty coin sack over his shoulder, and unfolded the note between his finger and thumb. The handwriting was unfamiliar, and the paper looked as if a spider had fallen in a vial of ink and scurried across the page. He held it up to a nearby lamp, and read it quietly in his mind.
Shinsou,
I have received your letter, for which I thank you.
If the contents of your message are to be believed, and that itself is a matter for Kinshara’s ruling council to decide, then I understand why you need me and you need the guild.
It has long been the case that a culture's teachings, and most importantly, the nature of its people, achieve definition through conflict. They find themselves… or find themselves lacking.
Before I go before the guild’s council with your case, I will require a small show of faith, a little example of you “finding yourself”.
You will go to the Citadel, tomorrow, and speak to an attendant named Shalo-zier. He is of Kinshara heritage, and he has organised a duel between you and Rameses Vaeron, a Raiaeran human with connections to the High Elves. The arena for the venue will be a special one – Shalo-zier will explain this to you on your arrival.
Your victory in this battle will serve as your merit for recommendation into the Guild.
Although it has had its internal conflicts, too long has Althanas remained unchallenged by threats outside of its reach. I believe it is starting to become a stagnant beast that labours for breath.
There were many warriors who were the strong, beating heart that sustained its sickness, but now they are lost, we shall see how long our world can survive in our hands if the news you bring is true.
I look forward to our first meeting, and to seeing you victorious in your trial.
Null
This was pleasing news indeed. The Kinshara Assassin’s Guild, a secretive organisation inside Corone with Telgradian connections, had received his message that Keats was dead and Temperance would be revived in two years without any intervention. Moreso, they seemed to be taking the threat seriously, which is something he himself admitted he did not expect. Shinsou could expect to receive ample financial, military and humanitarian support from them whilst he carried out his excursions across Althanas, as long as he could prove himself in this trial tomorrow.
Folding the note along the crease and sliding it into his pocket, Shinsou made his way to his room upstairs.
“Well then, Rameses Vaeron, whether you know it or not, the fate of many worlds rests upon our shoulders tomorrow.”
The Citadel: Exterior
The Citadel loomed on the horizon, dominating the skyline. Its size and weight seemed to pull the surrounding city towards itself, and even though Shinsou was rarely intimidated he could understand why people found the journey to the Citadel gates to be surreal and frightening. Periodically glancing up at its rapidly expanding shadow, he felt the nerves in his chest melting away the closer he got. The Citadel was cowing, pressing down on his soul, but strangely he found himself feeding off it, inviting it to make him stronger.
He had made his name in war. It had been at a price, though. Even the magic of Kokushi could not completely erase his scars, but his experience had made him cold and calculated in the heat of battle. The tales of violence of the Citadel, and the dangerous affects he heard it could have on the mind and the soul, would never be a nagging problem at the back of his mind.
Rain was starting to come down in sheets now, flattening his white hood against his head. The Citadel soared over his head, its spires towering into the murky skies above. Water cascaded down its cold stone walls and out of the mouths of the granite beasts jutting out from its stone.
He had arrived.
The front doors bore down on the man from atop the wide, shallow steps leading to the entrance, easily overwhelming the pillars flanking them. They were opened, and the Citadel’s bowels were exposed for all to see.
"Well," he said, nodding slowly as he entered, as if to himself. "This is it."
The Citadel: Interior
“Are you Shalo-zier?”
The orange robed monk stood in front of Shinsou nodded.
“I am. Come, there is no time.”
As quick as a spooked rabbit, the monk turned, taking off a brisk pace down one of the Citadels labyrinthine corridors. Taken aback, Shinsou was almost left behind as he tried to follow in the monk's wake. Eventually, after a couple of left turns and a swift right, the monk reached a room that seemed to be in isolation in comparison with the rest of the wing, adorned with a single large door with iron plating.
“Through this door, quickly. You are the first one here. The world you step into will be a special one – this arena will draw from your mind and your heart, and will carve a world for you. There will be no choices. Quite simply, you will fight in a place that is a reflection of yourself. Is that clear?”
Shinsou nodded, remaining silent. The monk grasped the large iron handle of the door, yanking it open.
“Good luck.”
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