A Daring Escape

[Roman]

Closed to Eyvik

He sat alone in the corner of the bar, just to the right of the staircase, and directly below the painting of the sailing ship. He was a picture of ease, arms crossed lazily against his chest, chair tipped on its back legs. Lips stained pale pink twisted into a tight lipped smirk as he observed in silence. The mid-afternoon crowd was beginning to trickle into the White Rabbit Inn, only just freed from the various jobs they held across the city. Eager for a change of pace, they spoke too loudly, laughed too easily, and threw their money at anyone offering them a good drink or a good time.

Perhaps these men and women would be easier prey later into the evening, when the alcohol flowed more freely from the tap and through their veins, but waiting posed its own challenges. First and foremost, the larger the crowd, the more difficulty the stranger had attracting their attention. And while a bit of ale drastically helped his cause, too much had the opposite effect. The man needed his audience attentive, and a bit tipsy, but anything more often led to disaster. Second, those who enforced the law focused much of their efforts in the evening hours; rarely might one find a guard in the late afternoon, unless said individual was exceptionally unlucky. No, the setting was perfect for what the man had in mind.

In a voice barely above a whisper, he declared "showtime."

With great flair and a flick of his long, black robe, he approached the individuals gathered around the bar. His broad smile, that mask of utter bliss he so easily donned, painted his features. "Ladies and gentlemen, friends and lovers, might I have your attention please?*" His voice, clear and crisp, cut cleanly though the dull roar of the inn. Save for a few patrons who continued their conversations elsewhere in the room, he had their attention. Discussions paused mid-sentence. Goblets slowed mid-sip. Mouths hung mid-laugh. All eyes turned to the lanky man in the oversized robe.

Excellent.

"My name is Roman the Great, and I am a master of magic."

The deafening silence that befell the small group was finally shattered by a chorus of throaty laughter. Between snorts, one dwarf managed to call out "go back to Raiaera, wizard." Then, he proceeded to nearly tumble from his barstool, descending into a fit of unattractive hysterics.

Like I've never heard that one before, you steaming sack of shit. But the magician's grin never wavered. He was, after all, a professional.

* Phrase used with permission from one BlackAndBlueEyes.

[Eyvik]

Seedy and bleak, the mire that constituted Ettermire's underworld sank beneath smoke-stained skies. In the looming shadows of the Spires that clambered on the backs of the destitute to reach toward heaven, men were no better than monsters. "Did you see the arse on that Lillith?" inquired one scrapmonger on the edge of Septic street to a merchant across the way. The powerful stench of disinfectants and purifiers in constant combat with sewage wafted up from the sewers below, but the rabble seemed indifferent to it.

"Aye," the gruff merchant howled back with a bellowing laugh, "some says she 'as man parts to compensate for that, Marik. Let me know the truth of it if you decide to plow that field."

Marik winced. "Arlo, ya prick," he spat with an obscene gesture, "must you ruin everything good in this world?" The gray and balding man wrinkled his face in disdain, but the younger and smugly smiling youth only laughed off his reproach. "I heard tell you made a considerable deal with one of the Guilds," the elder man continued, and Arlo's face turned from laughter to the epitome of seriousness.

"Shhh," he chided in a hushed voice, and he hurriedly crossed the distance between them. "Let's take this discussion somewhere less conspicuous."

The two men filed slowly into a tavern on the edge of Septic street, away from the offensive stench of Ettermire's filthy streets. Low lighting greeted them as the door creaked shut in their wake. The ambient sound of outdated blues music muddled with the splatter of coins on the bar, and their attention wavered toward a foolish youth in the midst of making a scene.

"Now then," Arlo whispered just above the bustle, "how much have you heard?"

"I don't want any cuts, boy," Marik protested, "why are you so worried about this? Are you in some kind of danger?"

"Don't play with me, old man," Arlo jabbed a finger into the aged monger's chest. The old man winced in pain. "You're in far greater danger than I am if any of the Blue Hoods hear you going on about what you do or don't know." His eyes belied a greater fear, and Marik looked around to gauge whether they were attracting unwanted attention. "You tell me what you know, and I'll make sure no one comes after you."

"You're getting mighty involved for a merchant, boy," Marik hissed through his teeth. His low, scowl of a voice chided Arlo for his foolishness. "Spying for any of the Guilds can get you deathmarked by the Black Hoods. They don't like us lowly peasants in their business."

Arlo relaxed a bit. "I ain't spyin'," he reassured the scrap merchant with a newly composed nod. "They made a mess, and they've paid me to be sure it gets cleaned up, see."

"They have the military for that," Marik warned, "don't get killed over something they're not paying good money for."

"Oh," Arlo laughed, "just watch. I'll have my own Spire, soon enough." Marik spat on the floor, even as the grand display mounted just beyond them. The bartender poured another drink and went back to wiping down his glasses, a cautious eye level on the two laymen whispering beside his bar.

"What can I get for you gentlemen?" he interrupted their discourse, which Marik responded to with a smile. Arlo shot the man a dark look by contrast, which the bartender merely brushed off.

"An ale, please," Marik smiled. "Two, better make that. I'll pick up the tab for my friend here."

The man hurried back to his tap and drafted two pale brown ales for the men, and Marik turned back to Arlo. "Abandon the fool's errand, boy. If the Blue Hoods fouled up, it's like to be something that could put an end to your life."

The clatter of two mugs on the counter disrupted them a second time, and Arlo took the opportunity to change the topic. "How have sales been in the last week?" he inquired. "I can't imagine that you make a killing selling broken machinery in the slums."

Marik shot the youth a tight lipped smile as he paid the proprietor for his time and their drinks. "I make enough to live," he replied, "and that is the best I will ever do. Men who live quietly, live longer."

"That they do," a young voice interjected from behind Marik. Startled, the merchant whirled round to see a blonde haired boy with a winning smile. "You're certainly a wise man, sir. Enjoy your drink." The boy excused himself and filed between the two men to where the magician was stirring up a commotion.

Blue Hoods, the pale eyed youth considered the short lived conversation for three steps, the length of time it took to close in. They've started involving citizens. I can't stay in Ettermire much longer. They were right.

In the crowd, Eyvik watched intently as the strange man wove his raucous web. His tattooed arms folded tightly as he considered the display, uncertain of how real the "magic" would be. Eyvik had an eye for magic, after all...

[Roman]

Laughter began to bubble up from deep within the magician's stomach. It was a beautiful sound as it spilled past his lips, clean and melodious as it rose above the ugly din of the inn's patrons. They fell silent in its wake, but Roman continued until he held the attention of every individual in the room.

Then, wiping a non-existent tear from the corner of his eye, he began to address the dwarf. "You there, you tiny bearded man." One lithe finger jabbed the air in his direction. "You think I'm quite funny, don't you? You find amusement in my profession, and pleasure in insulting me in front of these good people?" His voice grew suddenly icy. "How dare you impugn my honor?"

The merriment died on the dwarf's face. The color drained from his cheeks, before rushing back with the hot intensity of a man unsure of whether to be furious or embarrassed. He teetered on the fine line between the two emotions for a second longer, his jaw working, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Finally, he shoved back his bar stool and leapt to his feet, puffing out his chest to make his petite frame appear larger and more frightening; clearly, this was a man who had spent a lifetime attempting to look more intimidating than he actually was. It truly was difficult to take the dwarf seriously when only the top of his balding head was visible over the thick wooden table top.

Roman the Great extended his hand, palm forward, motioning for the enraged man to settle down. "Fear not, my friend," he boomed, "for I am a forgiving man, and I do forgive you for your insolence."

There was not a sound to be heard as men and women alike anxiously watched the magician's performance. This was perhaps the most difficult part of his routine, though his audience would never know it by his cool and confident demeanor. If Roman hoped to keep their attention, he would need to appear untouchable without seriously upsetting anyone. On more than one occasion, while toeing the line in this manner, the man had caused an all-out bar brawl at entirely the wrong time. Roman was not a fan of such things; while they were fun to watch, and actually encouraged at the end of his show, they often resulted in black eyes and jail time for him if they erupted too early.

"It is true," the man in the black robe continued, "that you have disrespected these fine people by interrupting my show. However, out of the goodness of my heart, I shall allow you to make it up to them. For my next trick, I will ask you to reach into your pocket, and hand me one of the coins that you carry with you."

"What?" snapped Roman's new assistant, his face still flushed. "I ain't givin' you shit."

"Aw, come on," a female voice whined from the crowd. "Give him the damn coin. I want to see the trick."

With his lips twisted into a frown and his brown eyes narrowed, the dwarf silently considered the offer. Then, "fine." One small hand dug deep into his coat pocket as he added, "but I'll be needin' it back. Its my last one."

The blue-eyed magician beamed. "Excellent! Thank you, good sir." A few long strides closed the distance between the human and the dwarf, and Roman held out his hand expectantly. "If you would just place the coin here in my hand."

The bearded man did so, and there was a collective gasp from the crowd. The moment the gold touched the magician's palm, it vanished. Even the dwarf, whose expression had morphed from anger to awe, nearly forgot that his last coin was now unaccounted for.

"Aha!" Roman Reynolds threw his arms out wide, gesturing to his audience. "Magic!"