Round 1: TheWesternWarlock Vs The International [Archive]

The International

08-28-11, 08:31 PM

The Boy Who Couldn’t Focus

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All bunnying will be approved.

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He’s not fit to be a covert operative…

A mother’s words tend to stick. No matter how much they’re proven wrong, no matter how much others beg to differ; no matter how many times she takes the words back herself. Those words stick... and sting. Vespasian was grateful for them for he knew that if he ever slipped up, that rosy headed matriarch would turn her nose up at the rest of the family and say I told you so, and he would be right back where he started – the dimwitted baby of the family that everyone needed to take care of because he couldn’t take care of himself. Those words echoed in his mind as he climbed up a steep hill in northern Corone’s countryside. The emerald grass made moist by the morning’s dew may as well have been ice the way it made his boots slide, yet the wet moss beneath it provided ample grip for his hands. He stopped his climbing to occasionally wipe a dirty hand on his leather pants. How prim of him. After a meditative climb he reached flat ground – a plateau of sorts. In the distance, beyond a grass field, stood the Lancaster Family Mausoleum. It was a grand old tomb constructed of Akashiman granite. It’s rectangular base was adorned with bronze statues of patriarchs passed and deeds to be remembered, but Vespasian was duly taken back at the one hundred foot tall obelisk that kissed the rising sun. More of his mother’s words from his early days rang in his ears.

He can’t focus on a task. That is needed to survive as a covert operative...

It was almost as if he could see those eyes of emerald and bronze shooting daggers at his father as she urged him to keep her baby out of espionage. His heart hammered at his chest as he moved forward. He swallowed the lump in his throat and nervously adjusted his onyx vest. The heartbreak was almost as fresh today as it was four years ago… which wasn’t right. Just a moment ago he used such adversity as motivation. Why did it hurt him so now? His pure amber eyes scanned the area. An owl called out as if it were midnight, the grass before him waved about like an emerald sea, a tree closer to the mausoleum was losing its leaves early. A possum scavenged about at that tree’s base, the sky was a comforting quilt of warm dawn colors, a large stone sat beside a barren patch of dust. This was the trick to his unorthodox way of thinking. It wasn’t productive to fight it. It was only productive to embrace it. To focus, as so many people defined it these days, would only bring frustration, and if he had done so he would have missed that rock. He started for the large grey thing that reminded him of the mountains. His heart beat ever faster and harder as if it was desperately attempting to escape his body, and he wiped his sweaty palms on the white tunic under his vest. His palms never sweat before.

Getting close.

On the back of the stone was a set of esoteric markings that had been chiseled in. It had been placed where it was easy to miss, near the base, but exposed to the air so it could work its magic. This was why anyone who visited lately had gotten an eerie feeling about this place, and why the Lancasters had contacted Vespasian. The noble family wanted to visit their ancestors, and a recent funeral was cut short due to a consensus among all who attended - here be something awry in the resting place of this clan. Simply knowing that this was the cause alleviated Vespasian’s symptoms of anxiety, but it alerted him to something much more ominous. Someone had done this on purpose, someone with magic at their fingertips. He continued his trek to the obelisk.

He’s too easily distracted. He frequently switches from one task to another...

A chill went down Vespasian’s spine as an unusually cool wind came from the north. He grabbed at his arms to warm himself. Suddenly his boot hit something soft and squishy on the ground. He looked down to see a mushroom… in the middle of a sundrenched hill. Fungi didn’t grow here. They needed dark, warm, and moist places to grow like under a tree. The only trees for acres stood in an aesthetic formation around the grey granite edifice. He glanced at that one tree, whose branches stuck out like bony dead fingers as a mound of perfectly green leaves sat at its base. Vespasian had seen this before. He drew his schiavona and stepped with caution as he approached the Mausoleum. As his eyes wandered like they normally did, the sound of a thousand claps alerted him to a flock of bats flying in the morning sky. Was the proper word for a group of bats a flock? School of bats, swarm of bats, pride of bats? None of those sounded right. Oh well. He’d have to find out later. Besides, despite it being morning it was way too bright for them to be out and about.

As he passed that dead tree, that same owl perched itself on one of the lifeless branches and took a great interest in him. Those oversized golden eyes were creepy… and mildly comforting at the same time. Vespasian was compelled to stop and look at the owl. He tilted his head… and the owl tilted as well. He straightened his head back up… and the owl did this as well. He spread his arms wide… and the owl showed off its impressive wingspan composed of pearl and bronze feathers. That confirmed everything to him. His muscles on his face seemed to act on their own as they curved up to an ear to hear smile that almost hurt. The young covert operative approached the black mouth of the tomb, a thin rectangular opening with a protruding stone threshold. At last the final condemning words of his mother came to mind.

He becomes bored with a task after only a few minutes, unless he’s doing something enjoyable…

Funny thing… he loved this.