Not until the Fat Lady Sings

[Jobe]

(Closed to Il Amator)

The hard, grainy surface of the wooden floorboards ran rough against the palms of my hands as I crawled through the poorly lit attic. My mind as sharp as whetted steel as I slowly made my way towards my goal. It has to be here, I thought. I mean, where else could it have possibly been? I hadn't much time before my opponent had arrived, and once he had, I'd be on the clock.

Everything had to be perfect.

As a hitman, I found after so many years on the job that about ninety percent of it was preperation. Having to know the layout of the turf I was going to, researching my next victim to make sure I would know him better than I knew the back of my hand, and of course the way I would kill him. After that had been completed, only then would things begin to fall into place. So, I guess you could say I could be a bit anal when it came to attention to the details. After all, if you were to jump from a plane, you'd be sure to check the parachute you were using wasn't defective. Right?

Well, maybe not.

As I crawled into the shadowy duct that connected the attic with the rest of the building, I heard the angelic din of a voice in chorus that rang all the way down the duct and into the world down below. I had no idea what the person belonging to was singing, but I guessed it was in some form of italian, but that wasn't what bothered me the most. It meant they were warming up, and that the show was about to start. There wasn't much time.

My vision rippled with light as I crossed the webbed mesh below me and looked down briefly to see the hordes of hundreds of people who were slowly pouring in through the doors at either end of the auditorium and preparing to take their seats. Soon the entire house would be full of witnesses and events, and like the rest of this place, they were as real as I was. Moving back into the darkness that was as black as pitch, I remembered how concise I was in the specifications for this place. I had demanded to know every square foot, nook, and craney of the opera house that was going to be constructed. Unlike the world of lights below, there were only a handful of ways to navigate through this shadowy maze of catwalks and corridors and I knew them all.

Traps were set, opportunities were in place, and I had made damn sure that I would be able to take advantage of them all. All I needed now was to secure the last cache and then everything would be in place.

(NOTE: I'll be kind about this one and make a summary of the arena: Its at an Opera House that was built. A real one like there would be on Earth with people, singers, and the whole shebang. Anything can be used as a weapon and there are traps and weapon caches spread throughout the whole arena. I figure we can play the trap and caches part by ear, so we'll see how it works out from here. Enjoy.)

[Il Amator]

It’s been too long.

I stood before the stalwart tower known as The Citadel and watched the steady stream of contestants enter its waiting arms. I knew some would meet crushing defeats while others would win resounding victories which they would talk about for days. I had been in both groups; I knew how they would feel tomorrow. But here on the steps before the tower, we were all equals. Each of us had a fresh slate.

The air was muggy and made my silk shirt hang damply from my shoulders. I frowned as I shifted around, trying to get comfortable. Why can’t these monks control the weather too? The sounds of leather boots pounding on the stone steps echoed around me, urging me to enter The Citadel and choose an arena. Wiping the beads of sweat from my brow, I began my journey. The battle started here; long before I chose my opponent.

As I pushed through the huge oak doors to The Citadel, I was greeted by the smell of… sterility? Nothing greeted my nostrils; apparently the Ai’Bron monks controlled even the lobby with compulsive attention to detail. I approached the desk and looked over a monk’s shoulder, scanning the roster of available battles. Nothing looked good enough for me.

“Tell me,” I asked the monk, stepping back and crossing my arms before me. “What interesting battles do you have?” The portly man looked up from his ledger, glancing down his nose at me to size me up.

“Sir,” he stated, the contempt in his voice poorly masked by his tone, “How would I possibly know what you would find… interesting.”

I briefly considered magicking the man’s ledger just to ruin the rest of his afternoon, but then thought better of it. No sense in irritating the man who may need to save my life later on, he reminded himself. “Unusual arenas, new opponents, whatever makes a battle stand out to you,” I told the monk.

He stared down at the ledger once again, his brow furrowing as he read the names. “I have a Vana’diel in Room 415, first time combatant; an operahouse arena in Room 113; a battle in a volcano with three ladies in Room 662,” the man stopped and glanced up. “Anything striking your fancy, sir?” he sneered the last word, obviously goading me.

Do these guys get paid to irritate people? I wondered, thinking again about snapping at the man. Too bad we weren’t in a tavern; I’d have taught him a thing or two about respect. “Room 113 sounds fine,” I answered.

Keeping my temper in check while I followed the chubby monk, we finally arrived at the door. “Jobe,” I read from the plaque beside the portal. Unsheathing my rapier as the monk added my name below the one already there; I tossed the blade in the air and caught it behind my back. “Bring it, Jobe,” I muttered as I leapt through the entrance to my operahouse battlefield.