Flamenco Strings

[The International]

Flamenco Strings

:::::

Fact

Permission to involve the non-player characters Maelle and Esme Villeneuve has been granted. All bunnying of non-player characters has been planned and approved.

:::::



Welcome to Althanas, a fanciful world of magic and wonder. Here knights slayed dragons, magicians conjured crazy cantrips and cockamamie contraptions, and myth was as real as the world was round. This was the world of dreams, but those dreams came at a price. Elves here were not so short, happily ever after was usually code for a long loveless marriage riddled with infidelity, and faeries weren't likely to grant you a wish or give you the ability to fly. They were more likely to cut your fucking throat! That's exactly what Conan dan'Rae was threatening to do to Vespasian Villeneuve's sister if he didn't comply. He was an international smuggler, a known crime lord, and a Fae... a life sized faery

“I saw you two talking after our meeting. Who is she, V?” Conan blurted out in the middle of the nearly empty restaurant. His sparkly cheeks were flush red with anger, his jewel eyes had a menacing tint to them, and even his butterfly wings filled with rainbow blood. He had a petite dagger more fit for decoration than death around the throat of a Human woman. “And you better tell me the damn truth because I know when people are lying to me.”

“What is this, V?” The Human woman with hazel eyes, milk chocolate hair, and crème brule skin trembled. Maelle, Vespasian's sister, was trying her best to come off as scared and clueless, but it was difficult for her to do. She was neither. In fact, she and her brother had orchestrated events so that she would be in this situation.

“You know what... Kill her.” Vespasian said nonchalantly as he remained in his seat along the marble top bar. The bartender dropped a martini glass, the dull hum of conversation coming from the world's seediest crowd ended, and even the man in the corner playing the classical guitar ended on an abrupt slap at the strings. Now Maelle truly did fear for her life. The two spies didn't go over this during their briefing. Vespasian continued after taking a sip of beer from his tall golden glass. “Go on. Kill her because someone in my business must not be allowed to have a social life.”

“What did the two of you talk about when -”

“Oh please. We were discussing where in the largest city in the world could we find a drink. Is that a crime to you, Conan?” Vespasian's voice slowly rose as he did out of his seat. “Is it a crime that we decided to go to the other side of Radasanth to have a drink instead of coming to your shitty smuggling front to subject ourselves to alcoholic sulfur?” The spy launched his glass of beer across the room, and it made impact on the brick wall and exploded with a golden splash. “Don't waste my time.”

A moment passed in which all that was heard was the symphony of evening activity just on the other side of the thin wooden walls of the restaurant. The tangerine Radasanthian sunset reached in to pierce the lemony yellow drapes that veiled the restaurant's true functions to the world. It created a marigold glow that gave the heated tension a sort of incandescence that surpassed the dim torch lighting throughout the room. Vespasian broke the silence with his boots as they struck the floor panels like a bass drum. He was on his way out.

“Alright... alright.” danRae said as he began to lower his blade. Vespasian didn't stop his exit. He was ignoring the crime lord on purpose to get a rise of desperation out of him. “Alright. I'll show it to you.”

He pushed Maelle away and snapped his fingers. The hand full of onlookers immediately rose and ran to the ornate double doors at the front of the establishment. DanRae began to explain as his people constructed a threshold made out of strings, diamonds, and wind chimes. “What I have to offer is a portal of the most advanced magic. By placing a receiving crystal no larger than a seed anywhere in the world I can create a portal which bypasses all of the latest security enchantments. To prove that to you, we've placed the other side of this portal in the middle of one of the most secure places in Althanas. It's been quite beneficial to us as well. We get some of our best henchmen from this place.”

“You've got the portal in the Citadel, don't you?” Vespasian's frown quickly became a sinister smirk. “That is a very secure establishment.”

“Why shouldn't it be? It's the greatest arena in all the world. Did you know the monks of the Citadel have more potent magic than the Raiaeran Elves?” An emerald light began to eminate from the seemingly random collage. The wind chimes began to sing jovial notes, and the diamonds began to spin frantically on their strings. “By the way, some warrior is going to come from the other side looking for a fight. Why don't you oblige him, V?”

[Amen]

Time stretched.

As one can surely imagine, the stretching of time feels fundamentally wrong, and it seemed like Marcus Book had a long time to wonder about his fate before things returned to normal.

Of course, 'normal' is a relative term. A blinding emerald light filled all perceivable space, and then began to melt away to reveal the most distant points of a room. Wooden walls were exposed first, and eventually a long fine marble-top bar with the vague impression of a man attending behind it. The floorboards were relinquished, and exposed rafters above, and more hazy humanoids that fell into focus one by one. Marcus quickly became aware that all eyes were on him, but time had not yet resumed its traditional flow.

The farthest figures became people first: the bartender, with a stunned look plastered on a dullard’s face, and then a pair the paladin first mistook for two women. The first of the pair was, in fact, a glowering dagger-wielding male Fae, and the second a slender young woman conspicuously putting some distance between her person and the aforementioned dagger. Marcus thought she was exceptionally easy on the eyes, which was notable because she didn’t fit with the rest of the scene. The Fae was odd, to be sure, but he meshed by virtue of poorly concealed nastiness.

The time-frozen scene continued to unveil itself. Now there were a few more people, all completely uninteresting next to the pretty girl and the effeminate maniac. At last, the space closest to Marcus came into focus, and a new figure was revealed. This one was less obviously out-of-place than the girl seemed, but he was too smart, too attractive, too plainly sophisticated to be a common player against this backdrop. Even so, Book might have overlooked him if not for his similarity to the girl.

The emerald light-fog seemed to suck up into the corners of Marcus’ peripheral vision, and then the light levels in the room fluctuated: shadows filled the corners and spaces beneath and behind tables, and then a pleasant marigold radiance began to burn into existence. It took what seemed to be a full half-minute for Marcus to recognize it as sunlight competing with anemic torchlight.

And then, abruptly – like a rubber band stretched to its limits and then released – time snapped back into normality. Marcus scanned the room again in confusion, and resisted the urge to lurch to one side: by unnatural means, he had been made to be somewhere that he hadn’t been a quarter-second before.

To the restaurant’s patrons, the entire affair lasted all of an instant. There was an inoffensive burst of green light, and then there was a befuddled man standing where there hadn’t been one previously. He was not an exceptionally tall man, but he was big due to wide shoulders and a robust physique that strained even against the fine jacket he wore. Only after would they notice that he held a hefty bastard sword in his right hand, and that fresh blood dripped from its edge to the dusty floorboards and there pooled.

And then, for reasons known only to him, he grunted and hoisted the sword up with both hands, and turned hard eyes on the man nearest to him – the man they knew as ‘V.’

[The International]

From the jade flare of inter-dimensional light emerged a bewildered warrior of imposing figure. He may have been Vespasian’s height, perhaps a bit shorter, but his build implied herculean strength as his muscles seemed to be choked by his simple clothing, and he stood tall in spirit despite his confusion. The young spy’s knowledge in profiling led him to believe this warrior was of Fallien origin due to the unique russet tint of the skin, the sable peach fuzz, and the dark eyes, which had a deadly fire that was undoubtedly from within.

This man was in every sense of the word… substantial, and until now Vespasian was able to feign such an attribute. In front of the genuine article, Vespasian’s healthy tan was pale, the cut of his hair was pretentious, and the attempt to hide his stature, or the lack thereof, in a loose fitting white tunic and baggy black pants was pitiful.

The nameless warrior gave no pause for introduction or formalities, which put Vespasian, who hadn’t the time to draw his blade, at a tactical disadvantage in addition to a psychological one. Instead the bulky brute initiated an overhead strike with his own great sword. Vespasian snarled at his circumstances as a guillotine riddled with crimson blood and rust of age descended upon his head. The sharpness of the flared warrior’s blade could easily be called into question, but the velocity of the strike would have more than made up for it.

Vespasian brought his hands together and raised them above his head to create a roof with his forearms as he pushed into the ground with his left foot thus launching his body in the opposite direction. The bastard sword fell upon the left side of that roof, slicing Vespasian’s white cotton sleeve with ease, but below it was the steel plate of his International Bracer. The two metals clashed for a brief second like grinding teeth just before the blade slid down the bracer due to the incline of Vespasian’s left arm, giving him just enough time to get out of harm’s way and quickly draw his own blade.

The makeshift audience gasped and yelped in moderate astonishment, which would probably be the biggest rise they would get the entire time for these weren’t normal civilians. They were thieves, murderers, and just all around seedy folks who had seen worse. It was just the sudden turn of events that roused them.

The fairy crime lord was amused as he clapped, “Oh wow! That was unexpected. This deserves musical accompaniment, don’t you think, everyone?”

The sordid patrons cheered in support of this request, and then they turned to the hired musician of the day. Until now his face had been hidden by his sloppy posture and the felt hat that creased lengthwise down his crown. However, as he looked up Vespasian and Maelle had to work hard to conceal their surprise. Vespasian in particular had to conceal his anger as well. He had been a successful spy for more than half a decade now, but his father still found it necessary to watch over the baby of the family. He had been there all along even before his children.

Esme Villeneuve unleashed his disarming smile upon the crowd and nodded in compliance as he began to strum away at the cypress guitar. He began with the melody filled with bitterness and melancholy as it rapidly climbed and descended the musical scale – an ominous forewarning of the violence to come. Trained in the ways of Istien, Esme could have used musical magic to enhance Vespasian, but he didn’t out of respect for his son. He was simply the soundtrack to the battle.

The gesture oddly comforted the youngest Villeneuve, and it was time for him to retaliate. He extended the International Rapier in his right hand as he opened his left hand to the air. Within seconds a tiny sphere of light no brighter than the torches that lit the place blinked into existence. The young spy pressed his left hand forward, allowing the sphere to shoot towards the unnamed opponent. It was completely harmless, but the man behind it wasn’t.

“Can a man get another’s name?” Vespasian said as he closed in on his opponent. He followed the question with a horizontal slash leaving a chrome blur that surrounded his body from left to right.

[Amen]

When Marcus’ blade met the concealed steel of his opponent’s bracer, he found himself pleasantly surprised. The bastard sword slid, and the paladin grunted with the effort of reigning in the weight of his weapon before the force of his swing carried it all the way to the floor. He retreated and straightened his back, relaxing and glancing around the room as the assembled crowd reacted.

He was unaccustomed to fighting for an audience, and mentally chastised himself for allowing them to distract him. Had the other young man’s blade been shorter and he more aggressive, he could have drawn and made a successful strike in that moment of confusion.

Book knew better than to dwell on his failure, though. Having noted his mistake, he examined his opponent, and grinned hardly when he noted the glint of steel beneath his tattered left sleeve. It was a neat trick, and the squire appreciated ingenuity.

When the Fae roused the crowd with a call for music, Marcus suppressed an inward groan. He had struck at least partly out of self defense: he’d hoped to slaughter what he perceived as the nearest and most dangerous of them, and thus discourage the rest from approaching him. For the moment it seemed they were content to watch, but he knew better than to trust their type.

Marcus allowed himself a swift glance toward the guitar player as his song began. Despite Esme’s relation to Book’s opponent and the pretty girl - whom he had mentally allied in his mind by their incongruity but not necessarily by family – he did not suspect the guitar player of anything at all. This was likely due to Esme’s skill and vast experience, and the pressure Marcus was under. Ironically, the guitarist seemed to be the least dangerous person in attendance. There was intensity to Esme's music that called for hard action and heightened emotions, and it inexplicably stirred something in Marcus’ blood and in his most distant memories. It made him think of proud, dusky-skinned women and swooping skirts, and cigarette smoke mingling with perfume. It quickened his heart, and called him to move, to dance or struggle.

In the situation he found himself in, only the latter was a viable response. He held his sword before him, noting the length of his opponent’s blade. Distance, Marcus told himself, and bent forward with his sword before him so that the pommel was even with a point just above his abdomen, and the tip bent toward its intended target at an angle. His sword was longer than his opponent’s, and he had to use that to his advantage.

And then Marcus’ preparations were made moot.

When his foe produced a magically-summoned sphere of light, Marcus growled and began his charge. It was evidently too late to prevent it, however, and equally impossible to react to it defensively. As such, the paladin did nothing but turn his left shoulder into the oncoming projectile, and he hoped the injury it gave him would be tolerable. When it connected with his bicep, he did not question the lack of pain: there wasn’t time. The rapier was an immediate threat, and Marcus brought the flat of his blade up to catch it.

The swords met and held, and the paladin allowed himself the slightest smile, though it was tinged with the effort of holding the rapier at bay. “Marcus,” he managed to say. “The name’s Marcus Book. You?”

And with the last word, he shoved against the rapier with all his might, and then lunged forward, intent on throwing his heavy left shoulder into his opponent’s chest.

[The International]

The man named Marcus Book was much larger than Vespasian, and so was his sword... That's what she said, Vespasian thought to himself as his figure was overtaken by the warrior's in an instant. The young spy couldn't imagine anything more emasculating than this. Then again nothing would be more empowering than defeating a man so imposing in physique. Such a thought was inspirational enough to give the spy a smile, even as Book thrust his great sword into Vespasian's. What would happen when an unstoppable force such as the skin-headed warrior met an immovable object?

They weren't going to find out today for Vespasian, in all his frail glory, was not that immovable object. In fact, being able to move was his greatest advantage. The spy pressed into the ground with his right foot thus launching his body to the left. All the while the two blades stayed in contact. The friction between them hissed in the air like an angry cobra until they rolled off of each other. The Matador had just barely evaded the attack of the Bull.

Esme made note of the continuing action with a rapid and percussive finger tapping on the sound board of his guitar. Combined with a rhythmic strumming, the Villeneuve Patriarch was able to create a suspenseful accompaniment to the deadly dance. His hands moved more rapidly, raising the volume of his guitar and causing it to echo throughout the spacious restaurant. Its effects could be seen in the rainbow of alcohol filled glasses that rippled with every note. He was playing well, but did he have any concern for his youngest child?

Maelle couldn't tell, but she was certainly concerned, and she wasn't about to let her little brother die. The patrons that surrounded her in the dining area looked upon the atrium of the establishment with amusement. So long as the two male gypsies persisted in their dance, they wouldn't notice Maelle conjuring up a little weapon of her own. Unlike anyone else in the family, Maelle was able to generate a powerful aura that was at her every command. She could manipulate its color, visibility, luminosity, and its state of matter. She could shape it to any form, add or take away from its mass, and manipulate its temperature.

The only tell for this matter was a corresponding hand gesture, so she hid her right hand under her sleeve as she began to frantically wiggle her fingers. The eldest Villeneuve child could see the heatwaves rippling against the fabric of the universe just above her folded arms. If, and only if Vespasian was in an impossible situation would she use this. She didn't want the silent treatment for a week.

During all this the battle continued, and Vespasian was ready to counterattack. He had successfully dodged Marcus blade thrust, thus he was well out of the way when the bald warrior charged with heavy rhinoceros steps and a shoulder blade befitting that of the beast's horn. Vespasian could use that to his advantage.

“My name is V...” Vespasian said answering his opponent's question as he came down on his left knee and held his right leg out across Marcus' path. “Just V.”

[Amen]

Dodgy little bastard!

Marcus Book was a disciplined man, a hard man, and his was a cold fury, so he didn’t as much as gasp when he found himself outmaneuvered. The paladin’s momentum was now V’s weapon and his forward motion could not be stopped before his legs met V’s outstretched limb.

Now, every young squire is taught that no battle should be taken to the ground, even if the opponent goes down first. After all, one can never say if a paladin’s foe has friends, never mind the tactical disadvantages of the prostrate position. Marcus did not remember this specific lesson, but the knowledge of it was ingrained in him. He could not allow himself to fall.

So Book leapt.

His charge had been considerable, and so he took the air and traveled a fair distance over V’s extended right leg, and his trajectory carried him so that he would land flat on the surface of a nearby table. Marcus twisted in midair so that his back met the tabletop, but his momentum and the slick surface of the table was such that he slid swiftly across its surface and off the far end. Now the paladin allowed himself to curse, and he acted with surprising speed: he kicked outward with both legs as he slid off the table, and the soles of both feet met the corner of the table which, in turn, propelled it across the floor and toward V.

Marcus hit the ground on his back and slid another few inches, but the floor was a good deal less smooth than the tabletop and so he did, at last, stop. He did not, however, allow himself even a moment to rest. He reached out and grasped the leg of the nearest chair and shoved the entire thing away from him and into the air – once again in his opponent’s direction.

The squire had no illusions about his abilities. The truth was clear: his opponent was swifter, and more skilled with the blade. Marcus compensated for this by depending on his own advantages: he was the larger of the two, and he was relentless. He would allow this ‘V’ no respite, not even a breath, and a furious flourish in Esme’s music mirrored that as Marcus once again rolled to his feet. The paladin advanced on V, not far behind the chair recently thrown, and he thrust the point of his sword at the beleaguered Villeneuve.

[The International]

The brutish Book easily leaped over Vespasian's leg, as was expected. In a best case scenario he would have only stumbled forward, giving Vespasian an opening as he caught his balance. Instead the warrior did something much more creative, and Vespasian's eyes followed him as he rolled over a table and launched it forward. The item of furniture seemed to skate along the hardwood floor as if it were ice, but the friction of the four legs sounded off like an out-of-tune brass quartet looking to ruin Esme's high octane guitar solo. That quartet floated by Vespasian as he swiftly but calmly moved out of its way.

But it seemed as though the spy only moved out of the frying pan and into the fire as a chair completed its arc through the air and towards his head. Vespasian brought his sword up and put it between himself and the mahogany projectile, but this was no myth. He wasn't going to be able to cut it in half like some legendary hero. The laws of physics didn't work like that. What he could do was slightly divert its course, so he pressed against the end of his sword with his bracer and pushed to the right as soon as he made contact. The chair tumbled across the floor to Conan danRae's feet, who shrugged his shoulders. The crime lord wasn't too concerned about his restaurant's furniture since the entire building was nothing more than a money laundering operation.

However, once again it seemed as though the spy only moved out of the fire and into the volcano as the rusty russet tip of Marcus' bastard sword came his way. He only had enough time to turn his bracer toward the warrior, but the warrior had learned. The sword came at Vespasian at such an angle that it was just low enough to miss his armored bracer and begin to cut through the flesh of his forearm. The nerves in his arm fired off like lighting and shook his brain like thunder, and that thunder had a message reminding him of what he was. He was a spy.

Spies didn't live by a code. Spies didn't follow the standard rules of battle. As a matter of fact, spies didn't fight fair. They just got the job done. That didn't mean he was going to get his family involved. The baby of the Villeneuve family still had his pride.

Instead of sticking around to fight the good fight, Vespasian turned to nearby spirits. These spirits were in this very room, quite familiar, and sitting just beside the wines near the bar. The restaurant patrons chanted in protest at his apparent retreat, but they would be thoroughly entertained if his plan came together. Vespasian sheathed his rapier as he ran past the bar and picked up a large open bottle of clear colorless liquid. He filled his mouth with juniper, coriander, and angelica that culminated in a liquid that was easy to identify, but difficult to define. He launched the rest of the bottle at his opponent as he continued his retreat along the torch lined outer walls.

Vespasian wasn't going to attack. He would simply wait for Marcus to do so, and Marcus would have to. Vespasian could wait all day, but he allowed his middle finger and a sinister grin to help speed up the process.

[Amen]

Marcus straightened his back and cocked his head to one side as his opponent retreated. It felt foolish to do this – something about the suave rogue suggested that even his body language could be used against the paladin – but he found it difficult to conceal his confusion. He decided that fighting humans, at least intelligent ones, was a great deal different from fighting the unholy and the damned.

Different, he thought with an impressed nod, and amusing.

The bulky warrior's amusement was acknowledged a fraction of a second before he was forced to snap his upper body to the right to avoid an airborne bottle of unknown liquid. As if he had foreseen his son’s actions, Esme’s music had been building from a point before the bottle was thrown and paused just before the vessel collided with the wall behind Marcus and shattered like the crash of a cymbal. When the song resumed with a twangy blossom of renewed music, Book found himself feeling a bit suspicious of the charming guitarist – and then promptly felt as though he were being paranoid.

V was making a run for…what? Marcus saw no exit in that direction, nor any sign of a potential sympathizer on that side of the room. He began to follow his errant foe when the scent of something in the air caught him mid-step. It wasn’t sufficient to stop him, but it made him turn his head and glance. Once the source of the faintly acrid and familiar aroma was identified, and when he turned back to see the Villeneuve the Younger shoot him the bird, Book laughed.

It was a good, deep, hard laugh: neither mocking nor mirthless, but altogether genuine and soul-deep. If he had playmates as a child the paladin had long forgotten them, and a young squire’s life is one of constant and serious preparation. The sensation of reckless fun Marcus felt now - and the related sense of companionship with one’s partner in that fun - was strange. Strange and twisted, but the paladin had long ago accepted his eccentricities.

So he laughed from the heart, shaking at the shoulders and letting his head drift to one side in the savoring of it. He lifted his sword high, and then plunged it straight down again so that the blade bit into the floorboards and stood straight unaided. He continued walking, leaving the weapon behind, and his smile did not fade as he first approached the bar.

“I’m guessing I’m not in the Citadel anymore,” Book said over the music, waving his right hand at his surroundings. In some contrast to his appearance, his accent was decidedly northern: his consonants were hard and often involved his throat, and his vowels musical. “This is strange to me. The monks there just finished patching me up after a bout when I found myself here. I’m starting to think they didn’t have anything to do with it.”

The squire began shrugging off his jacket, which he balled up in his left fist. “Do you mind?” he said to someone at the bar, and without waiting for a response he claimed the drink nearest to him and downed it in one swallow. He paused and wrapped the jacket around his left forearm, nodding to himself, and when he finished he took the next nearest drink and popped it back, too.

He couldn’t be sure, but Marcus suspected he would soon be experiencing a fair bit of pain.

“If I’m right,” the paladin said after a moment, “this is all more serious than I originally thought. After all, who is going to heal that cut? And what if you cut me? One of us could die today.”

Book began to cross the room again, narrowing his eyes at V and approaching cautiously. “…and if today should end with a sword in my guts, well, I think it only fair that I know beforehand if I’m going to wake up with a monk standing over me, or if I’m going to wake up in Hell.

“So which is it? Citadel or honest bar in gods-know-where?”

The paladin waited, clenching his left fist so that his forearm strained against his jacket and the tattoos decorating that arm began to glow gold. If his suspicions were correct, V would be unable to answer, and he would charge forward and attack. If they were not, V would answer, the danger was even greater than Marcus realized, and he would need to rethink his strategy.

Either way, the possibility of approaching pain became increasingly real.

Feel free to bunny Marcus in the appropriate way. Also, sorry for the wait.

[The International]

Clever, Vespasian thought to himself as the alcohol began to sear his tongue and sting the inside of his cheeks. This son of a bitch was trying to get him to talk, but he had a solution to that. The spy turned to his mark, the Fae named Conan, to help answer that question. His eyes jumped up and down a few times to signal the crime lord that it was his turn to pitch in. In truth only that man could answer the warrior's question for this little restaurant was his realm, not Vespasian's. The conditions of the battle were up to him.

“Really, V?” the sparkly skinned man said as he still held his sister hostage. His giant butterfly wings fluttered as he signaled Esme to stop playing. “Good Sir, you have no reason to fear. If you suffer a fatal energy we'll throw you back through the portal and the monks'll have no choice but to live up to their name.”

That didn't mean they'd do the same for Vespasian. In fact Vespasian was certain they wouldn't do the same for him. That meant he really didn't need to fight fair. Conan signaled Esme to resume his playing and the time out was over. It was almost as if his song never stopped. However the wild strumming was accompanied by a few of the criminals clapping along with him like a pair of snare players on a drum line. The energy of this new soundtrack filled Vespasian's heart with vigor, but the sight of his opponent's radiant arm filled his mind with concern. Now that he had this cheap gin in his mouth he was going to use it, and if he lost the battle Esme and Maelle would assure he'd find appropriate medical attention.

The spy reached for the nearest torch. With a quick wiggle it was out of its bronze wall slot and into his left hand as a new weapon. He didn't draw his rapier again, and it was not likely he would be drawing it again until he needed to land a fatal blow. Besides he needed his right hand free for his trump card. With a bass like thump his right boot struck the oak floor serving as a base drum to the evolving percussive section of Esme's Flamenco Orchestra. After four rhythmical strikes in place he firmly planted that foot and thrust himself towards Marcus and extended the torch forward.

Vespasian couldn't help but grin a tiny bit at the demise of his true target, for as amused as the life sized faery was at the spectacle of battle little did he know that this would result in his death, capture, or the demise of his most successful front.

[Amen]

Marcus glowered at the young man he knew as V as the Fae related the facts. In truth, the paladin was not concerned about his own death, and he could hardly blame himself if V met his end in a fair fight – amusing as he was. The challenge had been a ruse, an attempt to force the dapper swordsman’s hand, and the ruse had failed. At least, for the most part.

There was no longer any question: this mysterious swashbuckler had a mouthful of flammable liquid and a torch within reach, and Book was once again in a terrible position. He glanced from V to the torch behind him, and his shoulders visibly twitched as his opponent deftly retrieved it. Marcus was not slow, but he was not as fast as V. No matter how much he wanted the situation changed, things were quickly approaching a very unhappy, painful, and short future for the young paladin.

The guitarist’s soundtrack was rising in passion, and there was little doubt as to what this meant: something was about to happen. Marcus naturally took this to mean that the excitement was rising and the music followed the tension, but a second thought suggested that the music was adding to or even causing the palpable pressure. Again came the self-admonition about paranoia, but a third possibility lingered: the strange guitarist knew exactly what was about to happen without needing to cause it.

The swashbuckler began to stamp in time, adding his own piece to the beat’s intensity. Book watched him, his eyes burning intensely, glancing between his opponent’s face and the light of the torch. How many people had Marcus Book caught on fire in his short life? Many. He had some idea of the pain and damage an untamed flame could mete out, and did not enjoy the thought of that happening to him. He raised his arms slowly in preparation, his jacket-wrapped left arm forward, and took a steadying breath.

It came fast and, though Marcus couldn’t guess why, it was unexpected. Every clap of boot sole on wood was a warning, and yet it felt as if the moment would stretch into eternity. It didn’t. Quick as a snake, V lunged forward and the torch came on straight.

Book cursed in his native Salvic and raised his left arm to intercept the flame, while simultaneously throwing himself away and to the right. He did not allow himself time to fear the coming conflagration or expect the smell of burning flesh. He focused on his goal: avoiding it. For an agonizing stretch of time his back was turned to V as he retreated.

The man was a brigand, this much was clear. He proclaimed it in his dress, his haphazard tattoos, and the fact that the teeth in his mouth that weren’t rotted were misshapen lumps of gold. And he was drunk, smiling gleefully and clapping out of time with Esme’s playing while he swayed in his seat. Marcus grabbed the brigand and hoisted him up out of his chair, and placed the poor bastard between himself and V with his jacket-wrapped arm wrapped around the drunk’s throat to hold him up and in place.

Marcus peered over the shoulder of his foul-smelling human shield, and only now considered what had happened: where was V? Was his back on fire? Would the other patrons come to the aid of their captive fellow? How far was his sword?

For a strange moment, there was only the music.

[The International]

Finally the cunning of the fox was beginning to win over the brute strength of the lion! Vespasian couldn't help but smile as the great Marcus turned tail and retreated, but with his mouth now numb and his patience wearing thin, it was time to end this. With the upper hand the spy aggressively pursued his opponent through the restaurant.

Everyone gasped with excitement as Vespasian took a back handed swing with his flaming club. The fire at the end of it hissed as it flowed through the air. It wasn't a very strong swing, for Vespasian wasn't very coordinated with his left hand, but he didn't have to be. All he had to do was make contact with Marcus, who was just out of reach. He took another swing, this time inward to compliment the velocity of the previous swing. Once again the lion was out of range with his back to Vespasian and almost retreating at full speed. The onlookers reacted once again to this strike. This time Vespasian could hear a laugh or two coming from a few of them. This was like a sporting event to them.

The lively guitar suddenly changed key to a lighter tone. Esme was obviously happy to see that his son was gaining the upper hand, but Vespasian did his best to ignore it now. Since it was a critical time in the battle there would be a chance that his father would supplement his soundtrack with some Istien magic to bolster his spirits. Even though he didn't feel anything, he didn't want to take the chance. Vespasian wanted this to be a fair fight... kinda. If anyone was going to fight dirty it would be him, and by some people's standards he was already fighting dirty. Unfortunately Marcus was always just out of reach, so Vespasian decided to attack from another angle.

Before he took his third swing, the spy leaped into the air and brought his left knee close to his chest. His left foot made contact with the corner of one of the restaurant's many oak tables, and he launched himself even higher in the air than before. As he coiled for his second back handed strike he could see that the arch of his descent would bring him within reach of the warrior, but was it because he made a correct calculation or was it because Marcus was slowing down?

Half a second later the latter was proven to be the case. Instead of making the battle ending blow the warrior turned around and presented a shield to the flaming club. One of Conan's minions was now releasing a deafening scream of agony. His voice was scratching his body was shaking about, struggling to rid him of the deadly chemical reaction that climbed up the front of his simple tunic shirt. Vespasian dropped the torch in shock of what he had just done, while everyone else seemed to be amazed by the sight of their brother in arms slowly being consumed by the golden whipping flame.

Vespasian took several steps back and raised his hands in surrender as one of the henchmen rushed to pick the torch up from the wood paneled floor. No more.

“Throw him through the portal!” Maelle shouted. Conan tightened his grip on her as a nonverbal queue to shut up. “Hey I'm trying to help. The monks are obligated to heal him.”

Whether Marcus threw the burning minion through the portal or not he had to let him go. Clothes and flesh were highly flammable.

[Amen]

First Marcus growled as his human shield began to desperately struggle. The paladin was significantly stronger, but adrenaline and desperation gave the thug a great deal of atypical strength. Furthermore, the first wafts of burning flesh were nauseating no matter how familiar they were – Marcus didn’t want the man anywhere near him. Still, he held strong, fearing momentarily that V would take another stab at it.

A quick glance told Marcus otherwise. Was that guilt on the man’s face, or just surprise? Gods help him, Book chuckled. Not at his opponent, but at the absurdity of the situation. How did any of this happen?

“Throw him through the portal!”

The voice was feminine and dwarfed behind the agonized screams of the burning thug. Marcus’ bitter laugh faded, replaced by a grim frown. Of course it was the right thing to do, and that’s why it never would have occurred to Marcus Book. He didn’t care about the ruffian’s pain, nor did the prospect of his death change anything – it meant Marcus would live and avoid suffering that same pain.

In the paladin’s mind, the next course of action was obvious: throw the screaming human fireball at V. He was prepared to do it until the captive girl caught Marcus’ gaze and held it, even around the smoke and howls of fear and anguish, and inwardly the squire cursed. It was always the same, in the end: he couldn’t bear the thought of doing what he wanted and seeing disgust on the faces of those he knew were in the right.

Marcus did not know Maelle Villeneuve, but her character seemed unmistakable, and the paladin would have sooner died himself than have her or anyone like her see him for what he was. With an inhuman roar of frustration, he dragged the human conflagration across the bar and tossed it bodily through the portal through which he’d come. In a flare of green light the ruffian was gone and his shrieks faded.

Book turned around again to face the crowd, breathing heavily. The malodorous smoke lingered, making every inhalation turn every stomach in attendance. For a heavy moment everyone was still and quiet. Everyone but the mysterious guitarist, who padded his fingertips on the body of his guitar steadily – he knew as well as anyone that this was just a pause in the action.

Eyes glinting gold, the Salvic warrior scanned the dimly-lit pub. Would the remaining patrons involve themselves after the abuse of their fellow? Would they blame Marcus or V if they did? Or both? His glanced cautiously at his sword, which still stood upright, anchored in the floor equidistant from Marcus, V, and the foul Fae.

[The International]

Vespasian's amber eyes glowed with satisfaction and a smile as curved and sinister as N'jal's crescent moon appeared on his face. He wanted to laugh like the seedy individuals that remained, but then the gin, which had numbed his mouth now, would have fallen out, and he still needed to use it. Besides, the barbarians were relishing in the entertainment before him. He had an entirely different reason to laugh. The brutish Marcus may have had the lion's share in strength, he may have had more experience with his sword, which stood conveniently between the two of them, but Vespasian would always hold the trump card in deception. Whether it was the spy's sudden act of morality, or the suggestion by his sister that led Marcus to show mercy to the vagabond, he was now short a human shield.

It also seemed that Vespasian was short a catalyst for the now obvious fire breathing attack, so Marcus had nothing to fear, right? All he needed to do was make it to his old bastard sword before Vespasian and a proper battle would resume. To urge the process along Vespasian redrew his International Rapier and charged for his opponent's sword. Whether he made it before Marcus or not was irrelevant. In fact he came to a sliding halt just before he got to it, and that was when he unleashed the last weapon in his lowdown dirty arsenal.

The spy raised his left hand to his mouth and then flattened it. From the palm emerged a tiny flame, no more grand or scorching than a candlelight, which was all he needed. He slit his mouth open, pressed into his diaphragm, and the gin came forth in a flammable spray. Each little droplet was set aflame as it passed over his flat hand, and for a moment Vespasian was a fire breathing dragon. Like a striking lion the fire roared as it extended out beyond him. The musical accompaniment didn't stop at the sight of this, but reacted nonetheless as Esme strummed his guitar with a great crescendo. The dark corners of the room were suddenly basked in gold, but just as quickly retreated into the shadows.

The spy was all out of tricks... for now.

[Amen]

V drew his sword, and Marcus tensed. Both armed, Book had greater reach and the heavier weapon, and it seemed to him that he was the stronger of the two. Without his sword, however, the dapper spy had every advantage. How many holes would the paladin have put in him if he made for his weapon?

How many if he failed to retrieve it?

There was no real option, not when V attempted to beat him to the freestanding weapon. With a hard grunt, Marcus charged, his boots pounding furiously on the old floorboards and kicking up bursts of dust. His mind ran through possibilities: would V stab forward to intercept Marcus just as he reached the blade? Would he aim for the face or the torso? Or would he hesitate? Would he simply hold the blade and allow the charging warrior to impale himself on it?

He was so focused on the blade that the liquor occurred to him not at all. And why should it? Vespasian’s keen insight into Book’s mind had been accurate: he could not conceive of alcohol being a real threat without an apparent flame. Later he would curse himself for not remembering that first flash of strange, apparently harmless magic, and then concede to himself that there was no way to foresee every deft deception a master of espionage was capable of.

He was sliding to a stop when V raised his palm to his lips, and fear quickly gave way to panic: he didn’t know what this meant. The spy had stopped too soon to use Marcus’ momentum against him, and yet he made no attempt to stab. The briefest comfort came in the thought that perhaps V was allowing his opponent to arm himself again. And then a stream of flame leapt forward.

The paladin would have been caught dumbfounded and that would have been the end of him, if he hadn’t been preparing for this previously. With a shout of alarm, Marcus raised his left arm to defend his face and head, and ducked to the side. The strangest thought occurred to him as the flames licked his forearm: thank the gods I don’t have enough hair to catch fire.

And then: ow. Ow. OW. OW.

And then a steady stream of expletives nowhere near fit for repetition, which one might forgive him since his arm was on fire.

His jacket, which was still wrapped around his left forearm, was thankfully bearing the brunt of the heat, but the smell of burning leather was quickly filling the room. Marcus knew that the insubstantial lining would burn away first, and then the leather would begin to melt and fuse to his skin. There was little time to act, and so he formulated a plan even as he leapt into action.

First, he resumed his charge and took a swing at V with his left fist, which was now a blazing fireball. He did not expect this attack to be successful for a number of reasons, least of which was the incredible pain he was in, and the fact that he could scarcely make the sight of his opponent out through the thin grey smoke billowing off his arm. No, the lithe spy was too smart and quick to stand dumb while Marcus pummeled him with a burning fist. The point was to create more distance between them, buy Book some time, and maybe disrupt the gentleman’s momentum and composure.

The second part of the plan was to dance away from a possible counterattack, while simultaneously shoving the burning jacket off of his forearm and then to throw the jacket at V. Marcus did this boldly with his right hand, which began to smart after even the shortest contact with the heat, but not nearly as much as his left forearm.

Third, and without watching to see if the jacket struck his foe or not, Book fell back and yanked his sword free of the floorboards in one furious motion. He then fluidly fell to the floor and rolled in the opposite direction of the spy, both to put more distance between them and to snuff out the islands of flame he could feel growing painfully on the back of his shirt.

As he came up out of his roll, Marcus roared in pain, fear, and rage, swinging his sword two-handed down on a nearby table in a fit. The wood cleaved, and then the paladin yanked the blade free and kicked the table in the direction of the men who had been sitting at it – they had already retreated seconds ago, as the bar’s patrons were now wisely giving the fight a wide berth.

His fear-turned-anger satisfied, Marcus paced cautiously and glanced over himself. He couldn’t see his back, of course, but he felt the blisters there intensely. His left forearm was better off, despite being an unnaturally bright red, and his right hand ached but could hold his sword firm.

He stood panting, his eyes wild, shoulders and arms tense. After a moment he sniffed, and said, “That hurt.”

And then he realized he hadn’t seen where V had gotten off to.

[The International]

The spy had the upper hand now, and he wasn’t about to give that up by rushing in to capitalize with haste. With his luck, some unfortunate mishap would turn the tides and leave him up to his head in a torrent of trouble. Thus he calmly stepped to his left and well out of harm’s way as he watched as the brutish Book flailed about to put out the flame on his leather bound forearm. Marcus reminded Vespasian of a noble in Concordia he saw the other day frantically swiping at an invisible flying insect that he was deadly allergic too. Most everyone was allergic to fire. Had Vespasian tried to land the final blow at that moment, he would have surely caught the allergen.

Vespasian stood back still as the warrior discarded of his leather jacket and launched it like a fireball at a booth of gangsters at the wall. They jumped out of the way as the jacked knocked over an unused gas candle that sat in the center of the table. The flammable liquid poured out along the table and carried the jackets flame with it – a miniature river of fire… on an oak table, with oak chairs, on a mahogany floor, in a building made of timbre and full of combustible spirits and gasses. T’was a vicious cycle, and Vespasian liked it. Conan’s minions, the ones who laughed at their enflamed comrade not but a moment before, weren’t amused by the irony of the situation.

He stayed still as the warrior rolled around the floor like a dog attempting to scratch an itch it couldn’t reach, and even as the bonfire grew on the opposite side. The criminal Fae, who was a safe distance from any danger spewed out curses in between orders and hasty but bad ideas about putting the fire out. Maelle couldn’t resist sneaking a smile. Esme persisted playing from across the room bringing his fingers down to the lower frets of the guitar and playing wild notes of panic.

Vespasian smiled and looked back at Marcus who now had his sword in hand and saw it fit to chop through a nearby table like firewood, and as his great bastard sword was temporarily stuck the spy saw his opening. He rose his rapier up and across his body to the point that the blade almost touched the back side of his neck, and after a few steps Vespasian tensed his right arm and released it in a high velocity back swing. A silver blur reflecting the orange flame created an arch that was bound to cross Marcus Book’s person.

[Amen]

How many times had Marcus heard his fellows speaking of those precious moments in a heated battle when time slows, where one can look across the chaos of a battlefield with the utmost calm and see coming dooms?

They neglected to mention that in those moments, one moves just as slowly as everything else.

Case in point: Marcus realized the folly of losing sight of his opponent, sought him out, and was now watching as the young man was good and ready to draw a beautiful red slash across the paladin’s person. The rapier is a light weapon, quick and deft, and V was a swift, energetic young man. The bastard sword, in contrast, is heavy and brutal. Book’s sword was low. He did not have time to lift it in defense.

All he could think in that damnable moment was this is going to hurt so much.

Book twisted at the torso and brought his left arm up just as V began his swing. Even before the blade came, Marcus grimaced. Steel met lightly-cooked flesh and bit, and sank, and drank blood. The bastard sword is a vicious weapon, fully capable of hacking away flesh and bone. The rapier is a weapon of cunning, usually meant for precise stabbing.

Only now, as Marcus felt the steel sink in his ulna, did he realize that V’s rapier was thicker than a rapier’s wont. If not for the brute’s muscle and his half-recoil bred of hesitation, the young paladin would now be lighter by a quarter of his left arm. Instead the blade ate bone and bathed in blood, but stopped midway through the marrow.

Marcus had been right. It did hurt. It hurt a lot.

With a shout of both agony and anger born of agony, Marcus raised his sword one-handed and brought it down on V’s blade to hammer it out of his arm. The thought to swing at his foe had occurred to him, but his pain demanded this. He could not bear the thought of V pulling his sword free and sawing his blade along the bone in the process.

Only when the sword was out of him would he realize the building was on fire, and that would not make him happy either.

Marcus was not having a good day.

[The International]

Ah. A hit! All this time the bulky warrior had proven to be as agile and quick as he was strong and brutal. He was a great fighter. If Vespasian were forced to face the man in the middle of an arena, with no tables to throw, no booths to hide behind, no onlookers to use as a distraction, and no flammable liquid to imitate a dragon, he would have had his ass handed to him minutes ago. That would have forced the spy to fight fair. Yet they were in a place in which he could cheat, and cheat he did. He was only thankful that his father, who, in the midst of the infectious flames of the wooden edifice they occupied was still playing, did not lend him a helping hand with his Song Magic. For all he knew the power of Esme’s music, which now reflected the panic of the motley mafia, was compelling the flames to grow.

Vespasian decided to lock eyes with his opponent, whom he considered to be a not-so-innocent bystander of this entire fiasco. “Marcus, I know you have plenty of fight in you left, but this outside of the Citadel and it’s a matter of life and death.” He walked over to the bejeweled portal. “If you go back through this portal the monks will have no choice but to heal you, and when we meet again as I’m sure we will, I guarantee to give you a battle to the end.”

[Amen]

Marcus cradled his mangled forearm to his belly, and felt his blood pumping hot, wet, and sticky. His shirt was drenched, and already he felt sluggish. V was wrong about one thing, he knew: there was no more fight in him. Not if he wanted to live.

The young paladin eyed his opponent warily, wondering at a trick. He hadn’t understood any of this, and he certainly wasn’t going to work it out now – not leaking cupfuls of blood with every breath. Marcus searched V’s face, well-aware of the color draining from his, and then nodded slowly.

It was not a proud march. The end of his sword dragged along the floorboards as he approached that mysterious gateway, and he winced with every step. He considered his failures here, and all he should have done instead: he should have kept his sword in hand, he should have kept his eye on his foe, he should have kept his fear of the flame in check, and he should have kept his distance when the liquor was in play. It was not a proud march, but in the end he felt dignified anyway. It has been a fine fight, and his injuries were good ones.

Book paused, feeling the heat from the growing inferno on his back. A thought occurred to him, too prophetic to go unspoken, and so he turned to V. “We will meet again. And when we do, you’ll have a story to tell me about what the hell happened here today. But if it’s all the same,” Marcus said, “I’m going to avoid fighting you. You’re too likely to be the death of me.”

The last he muttered half to himself, shaking his head, and he stepped through the portal with a ethereal flash of emerald light and was gone.

[Silence Sei]

The International (http://goodcomics.comicbookresources.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/05/SWARRRS001_DC11-1.jpg)

Story - 7

Continuity - 6

Setting – 6 – A weaker area for the both of you in relation to the descriptions of action, character and interaction.

Creativity - 8

Character – 7 – casual dialogue in the opening posts didn’t feel like the extravagant, well to do man V puts himself across to be.

Interaction - 6

Strategy – 8 – There was a strong and characterful use of your personality, abilities and established behaviour from other threads. In opposition to Marcus’ belligerent and brutal approach to fighting, you drew on Vespasian’s wiles and this strategy worked to your advantage in this category.

Mechanics – 6 – Several missed punctuation marks and clunky sentences detracted from a usually high standard of attention to catching errors. I don’t need to tell you how to resolve this, and I expect it was to do with the battle format and quickened pace which you had to work with over your solo and quest work. Full stop in opening post made me miss a beat!

Clarity - 6

Wild Card – 7 – The opening post was awesome, clear and truly introduced your NPC’s with oomph and a refreshing thrill of danger. Who are these characters, why are they here, why are they trying to kill your family? Excellent work.

Total Score - 67

Amen (http://www.examiner.com/images/blog/EXID6911/images/stephen_colbert_paladin_by_todd_loc-300x225.jpg)
Story – 7 -

Continuity – 8 – You really put Marcus in the moment, and continued the urgency and stoic personality from your other writing through the course of your engagement.

Setting - 7

Creativity - 7

Character – 8 – no fear, true reaction to pain and a sense of belief in himself put Marcus ahead and gave him the edge in the character presence stakes.

Interaction - 6

Strategy - 6

Mechanics - 7

Clarity - 7

Wild Card – 8 – Again, excellent work, exciting, twisted, riveting. I especially loved the role reversal at the end of the thread – V becomes the brute, and Marcus becomes the wise sage; I would love to see how this plays out, especially as it likely ends in sharp sticks being put in unwanted places – always a laugh.

Total Score: 71

Amen gets 1500 Exp, 100 GP

The International gets 300 exp, 200 GP.

[Letho]

EXP/GP added. This one sort of fell in through the cracks. Apologies.