Midnight Rendezvous and bad Hardcore Music

[Chelsi]

((Open to one and all))

One year is not so long when measured in months, weeks, or days. But when measured in accomplishments and adventures, or long nights of self-loathing and depravity, it can seem more like a lifetime.

Rumors and tales of the actions of the Bandit Brotherhood in Jadet were already circulating around Corone. A strike at the port, rumored to be lead by Yari Rafanas himself left the docks short one ship, and the Corone elites more than a little miffed.

Chelsi scoffed at the notion. Yari Rafanas was dead.

The Bandit Brotherhood? Please.

Chelsi had seen the rise and fall of a hundred organizations, existing both inside, and outside the law. Leaders, friends, all came and went, trading hands like unwanted items in a yard sale. She knew all these rumors to be exactly that. Drunk-talk floating around the Peaceful Promenade during happy hour. No, Chelsi knew that her friends were gone, and accepted it a long time ago. She was alone now. There would be no more epic adventures. No raids. No short-jokes at the expense of Gild. No trips to Blackfield. Nothing. Just the life she had resigned herself to. The life of a common thug.

Chelsi had spent as many of the last few months as she could remember, floating from city to city, starting fights, and lurking in alleyways, waiting for the weak and foolish to stumble into her web. But for the few small coins she could salvage, it just wasn't worth it anymore. Times were tough, and getting tougher. Guards all over the world were becoming more vigilant. Organized crime syndicates were starting to set their eyes to larger prizes. Buildings, businesses, fortresses, and now, apparently, ships.

One person... One girl, no matter how powerful or expirienced, just couldn't make it on her own anymore.

The young sorceress had almost given up and thought about getting a legitimate job. Waitressing at a tavern. Grooming cat-people. Opening a Private Investigation office, tracking down demons that murdered the families of out-raged angelic dragon-vampires out for revenge.

Anything one could do to get by on Althanas.

Just...

Anything.

Then, it donned on her. A way to make money.

Fast money.

Easy money.

The Citadel. A place where murder was not murder. Death was not death. But most importantly, a place where foolish adventurers came to test their mettle, settle disputes, and display their big, fat, hard earned coin pouches, ripe for the plucking.

Chelsi had already arranged a room; something to her taste, and familiar in terrain. Always amazed by the power, accuracy, and detail of the magics in place at the citadel, the young bandit made her way through the through the large, double oaken doors, and couldn't help but be breathless as she took in her surroundings. Where the bright afternoon sun had filtered in through the numerous windows in the monestary, now only darkness of the deepest midnight remained. Where the finely carved granite hallways had been, trash and litter crunched under the sorceress' delyn-toed boots as she made her way into the replica of the dankest alleyway in Radasanth. The red-brick walls on either side of the narrow, ten-foot alley were crumbling and decaying. Bards of less than impressive talent could be heard from a distant illusionary tavern, playing a loud, grating melody, and screaming into a microphone. The witch just shook her head, making a note to specify a soundtrack for her future battles.

[Xanith Trailweaver]

“I am planning on leaving the island soon,” Xanith said as he looked down out the window at the harbor below. Several ships had docked there recently and crews of men and women were unloading crates and placing them on the back of a wagon parked nearby. Xanith had always admired the hardiness of the common folk of Corone and how their work ethic resonated throughout many of the island's laws, laws which allowed women an equal right as men to work any job they pleased. It was a refreshing change from Xanith’s home of Revelae, where women were treated with a pseudo-chivalric, protective courtesy that might at first appear to reflect admiration and concern but in reality only subjugated the women to that country's peculiar Elvish brand of masculinity.

Xanith frowned. Watching the ships reminded him that there was no vessel in Northern Althanas that could take him home. After nearly a dozen years in Corone, he would sometimes wonder if there even was a “home” to begin with, and if “Revelae” hadn’t just been some fanciful creation of a traumatized, lunatic mind.

“Back to Raiaera,” Serti stated, referring to the ancient Elven homeland that Xanith always claimed as his home but in truth had never once visited and knew little more other than what he had read in almanacs. When the elf nodded, Serti asked him when he was planning to go.

“No more than two or three months.”

“Ha!” Serti laughed, “I forget that your ‘soon’ and my ‘soon’ are two very different things, elf! Here, let me pour you some more wine.” The monk rose up from his chair, took his friend’s glass from him, and left the room. Tired of the ships, Xanith moved away from the window and looked for something else to occupy his attention, finally settling on the bookcase. Always something of a bibliophile, he scanned the titles on the books’ spines and when he came across something that interested him he plucked the book off the shelf and began to leaf through its pages.

“What have you found there?” Serti asked as he returned with two full wine goblets, one of which he placed on the bookshelf near Xanith.

“Poisons,” the elf said matter-of-factly. “Can I borrow it?”

“Go right ahead, as long as you don’t tell me what you plan to do with it, hah! And don’t forget that you still have one of my books on illusion theory.”

“I won’t Serti,” Xanith replied, referring to neither question in particular. He picked up the goblet and drained its contents in one drink, and then walked to where his pack lay and placed the book in it. “Are you ready to leave?” he asked as he slung the pack over his shoulder.

“Am I ever not ready?” Serti said, and together the two men left the monk’s house and began their walk to the most famous of Radasanthian landmarks, The Citadel. They were silent on the way there as Serti knew that the usually terse elf preferred not to speak before combat, a time which Xanith used to clear all distracting thoughts out of his head. Several minutes later they arrived, and after strapping himself into the light leather armor which he preferred, Serti brought Xanith to the first open and ready room. A monk that Xanith knew as Lenferth stood waiting there outside.

“Middle-aged woman, wearing dark clothing – “ Lenferth began to announce in the usual customary fashion, but not caring to hear the rest of his opponent's profile Xanith strode past him, opened the door, and entered the arena.

A woman, Xanith thought to himself, and for the first time in several days he smiled. Equality indeed.

[Letho]

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