All the World's a Stage ((Closed))

[This Illusion]

Closed to Alembic

Permission to bunny characters granted by both parties
As he strolled through the hallways of the Citadel, following an Ai'brone monk, Faus considered to himself just how brilliant a decision he had made in coming down to the arena for a fight. Here, he would be able to craft for himself another story of his valor and excellence in battle. If he actually won, all the better. All he would have to do would be to play his opponent up and make his victory that much more impressive. And if he lost...well, so long as he was far enough away, there would be no one to refute his claims of victory.

The monk that was leading him stopped before a door, though in his reverie, Faus nearly passed by him, stopping only when he heard the monk clear his throat to draw Faus' attention back to reality. With a cheeky grin, the man turned back around and stepped toward the door.

"Here is your room, Mr. Maigizo," the monk said, opening the door for him. Before entering the room, Faus turned toward his guide and gave an exaggerated bow.

"Much appreciation, my good sir!" he exclaimed in a loud, energetic voice, "May you find great success in...ah, whatever it is you monks do!" The monk stifled a sigh and nodded at Faus before leaving back down the corridor with a quick step, as if trying to put as much distance between himself and odd man as swiftly as he could. Faus watched his retreat with curiosity, then shrugged and took a step into the chamber.

As he looked around it, he raised his hands and began to clap wildly. Here indeed was the arena that he had wanted when he had made his requests. The wooden floor of the platform beneath his feet, the lights that shone brightly down upon it, the wondrous red velvet curtains that adorned the sides, tied back with golden rope; here was the theater stage he dreamed to stand upon! And out to his side, the rows and rows of seats, shrouded in darkness, where the audience would be sitting. If there had been an audience. The empty seats would allow the combatants to fight off the stage, at least, though, as it was, the balcony seats were inaccessible. After setting his bag down by the door through which he had entered, Faus took a few more steps toward the center of the stage and, much to his delight, a spotlight instantly shone down on him while the other lights in the theater dimmed. He grinned brightly as he squinted, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the sudden change in illumination.

Faus turned his attention completely to the chairs and, with a flourish, pushed his cloak off of his shoulder, allowing its tattered self to settle down on his back, relying entirely on the clasp around his neck to stay up.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen!" he announced to some invisible crowd that he imagined would be there, applauding energetically but with the restrain such highbrow patrons surely had.

"Tonight!" he continued, though in truth it was still only the afternoon, "We — or rather, I — have come to present to you the most exciting show that your eyes shall ever feast upon! Tonight, here, before you eyes, your gallant hero shall face off against a deadly foe wielding nothing but this rapier!" He could hear the gasps of his false audience as he slid the blade from its sheath and showed it to them. Faus swung the rapier around a little, listening to it swish as it cut through the air.

Turning toward the opposite end of the stage from the one that he had entered, Faus took a few steps back before pointing the tip of his rapier toward the other side. As if on cue, another spotlight shone down there, waiting for someone to enter it.

"Now, enter stage left, my opponent!"

[Alembic]

“Your last name is what?” the monk of Ai'Brone said. His quill quivered over the parchment used for signing up contestants, and he raised a bushy white eyebrow.

“Boehme,” Amelie repeated. “My name is Amelie Boehme.”

If the monk's eyebrow raised any higher, Amelie thought if it might escape over his forehead and take residence behind one of his ears. She glanced around at the opening hall of the Citadel and shuffled from one foot to the other. Behind her, a line of adventurers including a minotaur and an evil-looking wizard in black robes tapped their feet and waited for her to finish. The minotaur stomped a hoof on the ground and snorted.

“Could you hurry up?” she snapped at the monk. For goodness sake, she had expected the monks of Ai'Brone to be above low-level Radasanth politics. After all, her status as the daughter of a Duke didn't exempt her from participating in the Citadel if she desired. Perhaps the monk was more surprised by her garb than her social status. While the other contestants wore armor and mail, Amelie merely wore a large, flowing dress of the latest fashion. She wondered if that had been a mistake.

The monk finally scribbled her name down on the paper and Amelie breathed a sigh of relief. “Very well,” he said with a nod. He gestured towards a corridor. “Follow me, Miss Boehme.”

She followed the monk down the corridor and through a labyrinth of twists and turns. They passed thick iron portcullises, wooden doors, and shimmering purple portals, each of which no doubt lead to some fantastic and dangerous battle arena. Then they walked through the medical ward of the Citadel, where injured gladiators and contestants lay groaning in cots, with bandages wrapped around their arms and legs. Amelie gulped.

“So,” the monk said. “What is a young lady such as yourself doing looking for Citadel matches?”

They passed an ominous black doorway marked with the number 13 and continued walking. Amelie rolled her eyes behind the monk's back. “I, ah, thought it might be educational to visit one of the city's longest-standing entertainment establishments,” she lied. The real reason she came to the Citadel was that her father had explicitly told her not to. If her father told her not to do something, Amelie pretty much had to.

Still, perhaps this visit was taking things a bit too far. Amelie could hardly be considered an expert fighter. She knew a tiny bit of fencing, but not exactly enough to be considered capable. Her skills lay in alchemy, not hand-to-hand combat. Ah well. Perhaps her opponent would go easy on her.

“Educational indeed,” the monk said. He stopped walking and turned around. He gave her a broad and mysterious smile. The kind of smile the Ai'Brone monks always wore. Amelie wondered if they had to take classes to perfect the broadness and mysteriousness of that smile. They probably did. “I have attempted to match you with an opponent near your skill level,” he said.

“Fair enough,” Amelie said. She looked at the simple oak door they had stopped in front of. “This door?” she asked.

The monk nodded. “Good luck, Miss Boehme,” he said.

Amelie took a deep breath and pushed through the door and into the arena. She stepped into a bright light and instinctively blinked and rubbed her eyes.

When she adjusted to the lighting, Amelie realized that she stood in the midst of a spotlight on a wooden stage. Red velvet curtains tied up with twisted gold rope hung from the sides, while rows of empty seats watched the stage. Amelie turned her nose up, unimpressed at the finery. They had much nicer gold ropes at the Radasanth Opera than this little hovel, and the velvet was horribly tacky. How classless.

On the other side of the stage in another spotlight stood an unimpressive looking man with cheap, tattered boots and a rusty rapier. Her opponent, no doubt.

“My name is Amelie Boehme, daughter of the Duke and Duchess Boehme,” she introduced herself. She gave the smallest curtsey possible and drew her own rapier. Then she smiled as she pointed it at her opponent with a flamboyant flourish. “En garde!”

Not only actors are allowed to have a sense of the dramatic, after all.

[This Illusion]

As his opponent stepped into the light, Faus' grin faltered for a moment. Before him stood a young woman wearing a dress — a nice dress, certainly, one that he had observed a good number of women wearing these days, but nonetheless, it was just a dress. For a moment, Faus wondered if he was perhaps overdressed in his leather jerkin and if it would be best to take a moment to change out of it, perhaps even switch over to the dress and wig in his sack to put the combatants on more even footing. He rejected the idea almost immediately, however, figuring that he might as well have his advantage and that it was a little too late anyway, since his opponent had already seen him with her pair of large, green eyes.

While he considered all this, Faus continued to take in the young lady's features, wondering if there was anything about her that he could use in his stories later on, something that would make his victory all the extraordinary, or at the very least something that would justify his defeat without making him seem like a fool. His opponent had a slight frame and her impressively long brown hair was held up by a purple bow, likely the only thing keeping it from reaching the floor. Both of these seemed more a hindrance to her, however, and that dress she wore, which was largely of a lavender color, surely was not made for combat. All in all, Faus decided, she seemed very purple. Not exactly something that would strike amazement in others, hearing how he had faced off against "The Purple Lady". Perhaps "The Violet Lady" would sound better.

He heard her speak. The daughter of the Duke and Duchess Boehme, Amelie Boehme, the young lady introduced herself as. Quite possibly an impressive name to have, though Faus knew so little of who was important in the world that he could not be sure. Nevertheless, as Amelie pulled out her rapier, Faus brightened a little in hopes that her high lineage meant that she was well-trained in her weapon, so that he could use that at least in the tales he would weave. After all, a good story had some basis in truth.

"An excellent stage presence, Lady Boehme!" Faus said in praise of Amelie's preparation for the fight, "Very fine indeed!" He lightly tapped the hilt of his own weapon, applauding her before bowing deeply.

"As for me, you may call me..." he began, pausing, imagining the tension in his invisible audience as they waited with bated breaths for the hero's name, "Dago Bolond!" He got up from his bowing position as he said this, looking proud. A brilliant move, so Faus thought, to use one of his false names. After all, it was Faus Maigizo that had entered the room and it would be Faus Maigizo that left it. What did it matter if it was Dago Bolond in the fight and, furthermore, it would lend credibility to his tales of victory later if there was no one who could claim to have beaten a Faus Maigizo.

With a sweeping gesture, Faus pointed his rapier at Amelie. He raised his off-hand up in the air, not entirely sure why he did so, but knowing that this was how they did it on the stage. Slightly bending his knees, Faus shifted the angle of his sword a touch so that it was no longer parallel to the stage floor.

"Now, have at thee, Lady Boehme! Let us fight a good fight!" With this proposition, he began to inch toward his opponent, giving her the opportunity to make the first attack and meet her blade with his so that it made that wonderful tink as metal struck metal. At least, that was how it should go, according to what Faus had seen on the stage. He tightened his hold on the grip of his rapier, just in case the lady's skill was so high that it would cause the blade to leave his hand at the first hit. That would not do at all. The dramatic tension around him recovering his weapon should come later.

As he crept his way forward, Faus wondered briefly if Amelie had any other talents he could speak of later. Perhaps he would ask her as they dueled. A cool-headed conversation during a hot-blooded fight would make for a most spectacular scene.