Getaway

[The International]

The trick to successfully evading pursuit was to go against all logic. Vespasian knew this as he casually strolled down the busiest street of Radasanth. Logic told him to run from his pursuers as fast as his feet would carry him. Better yet he could commandeer a horse and gain great distance. While he may have had a chance to get away using these two strategies, the distressed civilians would chant their disapproval of his brazen ways. His knowledge as a seasoned covert operative told him to blend in by walking only slightly faster than everyone else and to move with the current of Human activity as it flowed like a river of life between the Bazaar, the Red Lamp District, and the Citadel.

Another logical mistake was to hide, but if he were found he would surely be killed. All but an antisocial thirty percent of the city’s people were here as the tangerine sun retreated behind the horizon either leaving the Bazaar as it closed up shop and relocating to the Red Lamp District for a drink or a ‘good time’ or to the bloody but honorable spectacle of the Citadel. Staying here, amongst the pedestrians in their humid and somewhat putrid density was the safest place for Vespasian until he could make a better move. He didn’t even have to look back at his pursuers. They were making such a ruckus attempting to get to him that the good people of the city expressed their displeasure by grunting and yelling. They weren’t getting any closer to him, but he had to end this eventually.

His solution came in the form of the legendary Citadel. The ziggurat towered above every other structure in the city, and in the retreating sunset it was a golden sanctuary for the covert operative. He smiled as he turned and calmly climbed its seemingly endless flight of stairs. His enemies weren’t far behind, but they managed to slow themselves down by running over an old lady on the street. He glanced back at the three of them and grinned as he passed under the oversized archway. The vast earthen marble atrium bounced even the lightest footstep off its tall walls to cause an echo. As much as Vespasian enjoyed the idea of a full on battle without consequences, he would never in his right mind come here as a spy unless he absolutely had to. In his lifetime he would encounter countless nameless henchmen, hit men, and hired guns, most of which will have tested their mettle here. Therefore it was wise to stay out of this place.

This was an exception to the rule, however, and he could use the monks to help him get away. He knew one would promptly greet him within thirty seconds. “Good evening, sir.”… Like Aleraran clockwork. “Would you care to do battle in one of our arenas today?”

Vespasian halted and turned to the bald monk who greeted him from his right. “Why yes. I’d like quite a challenge, someone who’s likely to defeat me.” He said as he gave a smug smile. The monk nodded and led him down a seemingly endless void of a hallway. “Have you guys ever considered opening a restaurant? Your service is impeccable.”

The pair made their way down a hall that wasn’t much less populated than outside. The added benefit here was that almost everyone was armed, so if his enemies decided to do something here they would be severely reprimanded. As they stopped at a great stone door Vespasian reached into his simple white tunic to pull out a violet diamond. The jewel of Alerar’s late Queen Valsharess was his lifeline to his family, but he only dared to communicate with one, Ludivine. She’d be the only one who wouldn’t judge him for using the Citadel the way he was about to. He didn’t speak. He simply pinched the flawless diamond and pictured her. The black sheep of the family would simply know, and ‘feel’ where he was.

As the monk heaved open the heavy door three black cloaked figures turned the corner. Vespasian responded by raising his hands in a quizzical gesture. “Sorry, gentlemen. I already have an opponent for this battle.” He quickly turned to the monk with wide brown eyes of urgency and a hushed tone that nonetheless coincided. “You do already have an opponent for me right?”

“One moment.” The monk cocked his head back and his eyes nearly rolled to the back of his head. “Now you do, but he retains the privilege of creating your arena. Simply step in and keep walking.”

“My pleasure.” The young spy said as his white tunic and black pants barely kept up with him as he rushed into the room. His steps began to echo as the light from the hallway disappeared. He knew that as long as he was here he was safe despite the fact that he was likely to get his ass handed to him. That, however, was a part of the plan.

[SandStorm]

The Oasis Inn had been owned by the Ner'Tak family for a little over thirty years. In that time the small establishment had managed to garnish quite the reputation throughout the city of Radasanth. Located a few blocks from Corone's world renown Citadel, the inn was often frequented by travelling warriors and boisterous thrill-seekers. Not a night passed in the Oasis Inn's rowdy tavern that some far-fetched skirmish story wasn't told. It left the establishment's current owner, Marcus Ner'Tak, in a state of disbelief.

It was that very disbelief that brought the young man to the Citadel's front door that evening. Wandering like a bat-eyed child who had lost his mother, Marcus looked a bit out of place. Despite the fact that he had been in the city of Radasanth for several months, he had not strayed far from the confines of The Oasis Inn. The city was foreign to him and he didn't much favor being in the presence of strangers unless it was a total necessity. Tonight, however, he would break away from being a hermit briefly to experience the thrills that were rumored to accompany a Citadel duel.

Passing under a massive archway of stone Marcus noted just how busy the Citadel really was. All around were seasoned warriors. Some looked like they had crawled from the deepest, most isolated caves on Althanas just to participate in a barbaric push-and-shove. While others resembled knights and veteran mages who had set their sights on personal improvement. However, none of them resembled Marcus. He had modeled his attire after a man he had met in Fallien, a man who defined himself simply as "a cowboy." From a red bandanna to a round-brimmed hat, Marcus had managed to mimic the cowboys look almost perfectly. He even wore rough leather boots that were pointed at the tips.

The most popular attire in the Citadel was one that resembled priesthood. White robes that draped well below the knees and symbols that represented an order that was foreign to the young Salvarian. Little did Marcus know that these were the Ai'Brone monks. Men and women that could weave the threads of life and death within their stone sanctuary.

"Hello young man," said one of the monk's who had caught Marcus' eye moments after his entrance to the stone halls. "Here for pleasure, or pain? Maybe a bit of both?"

Marcus took a moment to respond, trying to process the question within the depths of his mind. It was a process he rarely, if ever, did. Normally he was brash with his responses, giving little thought to who he might offend.

"I was thinking a little of both." He replied, tipping his hat slightly to reveal a chiseled face that was rounded with stubble.

"Well, you're in the right place." The monk stated with confidence, "before we can continue though, I'm going to need some information on the theme and rules in which you'd like your arena molded."

Marcus' only response was, "huh?" Which was followed by a look of sincere confusion.

"The setting in which you'd like to fight. Fallien? Alerar? A platform mounted a mile above the ground? Anything you desire, we can create."

"Oh," Marcus answered, accentuating the 'h' for almost a second. "Well in that case I'll have..."


- - - -

Marcus, being unfamiliar with the power of the Ai'Brone monks, had asked for a very plain arena. In fact it may have been the most homely, simple creation ever asked of them. Under his feet was a solid mound of dirt that spread out for about a square mile. In the middle of the area was a platform that sprouted from the ground and extended about forty feet into the air. The platform seemed to be built of oak wood and was complete by two ladders that stretched to it's peak.

Before examining his arena any further the cowboy closed his eyes, trying to visualize the challenge ahead. Trying to picture what his opponent might look like.

[The International]

The covert operative’s sense of hearing was the first to alert him to the changes in the environment. The echo of his footsteps disappeared for two reasons; there were no walls for the sound to bounce off of, and the floor had become soft thus rendering the snare like strike of his boots muffled. His sense of touch was activated with a sudden burst of air that sent his loose clothes into a ripple. It was simply due to a slight change in temperature. His nose tingled from a smell he could only describe as ‘fresh’. Finally his eyes came into play to confirm that smell as fresh top soil and fresh timbre that stacked to the sky. His assumption, seeing as there was a ladder before him, was that this was the stage of battle. A mischievous smile emerged on his face as he approached the ladder, drew his rapier with a bell like chime, and… began to walk around to the other side.

He took his sweet time as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the object that got him into all of this in the first place, a simple piece of paper with three lines, several numbers, a letter here and there, and a plethora of signs. It was an equation that apparently could ‘change everything’. Or so his clients claimed. What concerned him more was the way in which he got his hands on this equation. Correction; what impressed him more was the way he got his hands on the equation. It was devised by a local visionary who called himself a physicist. Strange things began happening around his residence that caught the Corone Empire’s attention, but before they could look into things, a seemingly random group of thugs broke in, killed the physicist, and apparently took nothing from his home. Intelligence officials knew better, and immediately contacted Vespasian.

He disguised himself as a local law enforcement official and intercepted their carriage. He stopped them on false claims of routine weapons checks for firearms had been smuggled out of Alerar, or at least that was the story. As he searched them, he pick pocketed each and sent them on their way. It would only be a matter of time before they realized that their prized equation was missing, and thus the chase began.

Vespaisian pocketed the slip of paper and wiped the smile on his face. The more time he could spend here the better. It would allow his sister more time to arrive and provide support outside this arena, and, if he played his cards right inside this arena, he would properly shake his pursuers. However, this little move of his was just to have some fun.

He turned the corner of the platform to see the other ladder, but no opponent around. He was either at the top of the platform already, which hopefully was the case since Vespasian took his sweet time getting around, or his opponent was thinking the same thing he was. There was only one way to find out. Vespasian peered up the ladder. Nothing. Nevertheless he raised his sword into the air and began hacking at the brown ladder like a tree trunk, and once he did enough he pushed it over with all his might.

[SandStorm]

In most cases Marcus would've been cocky. He would've charged into the arena swinging his sword and demanding respect, and attention, from everyone around. Needless to say, but he was a show-off. However, today had been different. Instead of charging in cocksure, and full of insulting dialogue, he took his time. Stopped to think of what he was trying to prove in the Citadel. Was it that he was changing? Becoming more mature then the sniveling brat that had been cast away, and exiled, by his parents almost a year prior.

He couldn't find an answer.

Instead he stood motionless, eyes shut, in his barren arena. The young man was so deep in thought that he almost didn't snap out of it when he heard his opponent chopping at the wooden ladders that were meant for climbing. What finally brought him fully back to reality was the resounding crash that was resulted after his foe toppled the ladder.

"You know those things are for climbing right?!" Marcus chanted from across the stage that would soon broadcast a scene of two men fighting for their lives.

With a tip of his hat, and a wide smile that split his face from ear to ear, he composed himself. Pushing the deep thoughts that kept trying to resurface in his mind into some deepening chasm that would need to be reopened later, after he was done trading blows with the young man that stood before him.

"So you got a name partner?" He asked before stepping forward and extending his hand, "mine is Marcus. It's a pleasure to meet you."

[The International]

This Marcus was a peculiar man in a visual sense, but from what Vespasian had been told about the Citadel, that was to be expected. Out of the great diversity of warriors that could have stepped into that arena, he was probably one of the more conservative ones. His dress code, without décor or status of any kind that Vespasian's vast knowledge of culture could identify, could only be described as utilitarian.

Marcus' knee length trench coat draped heavily along his body and matched the color of the fresh soil beneath their feet, as did his large boots. His tarnished denim pants matched the pale blue sky above them, and even had a few clouds of their own. Finally, the scarlet rag that wrapped around his neck and framed the gleeful smile on his rugged face was an omen of the blood that would be spilled soon.

Names. Always with the names. Why did everyone on Althanas care? Anyone memorable enough to the spy was able to make themselves so with qualities other than the superficial verbal call sign their mother gave them at birth. Nevertheless Vespasian had to oblige, but at least he didn't have to do so completely.

“Feel free to call me V.” He said with a nod and a smile as he waved his sword in greeting. “Just V. How about we get started?”

With that said Vespasian charged. His boots pounded at the soft ground as he quickly closed the distance between himself and Marcus and his International Rapier seemed to rise of its own will to meet the leather bound warrior. The spy had a right to smile today, for he was in the middle of playing a big trick on the rest of the world, and Marcus was his punch line.