Storm In A Teacup

[Arden]

Time was a cruel master. For those amongst us that are immortal, it is crueller still. There is no release, save for oblivion and abandon and unconsciousness. Even then, for the members of the Tantalum troupe, no reprieve is found in night’s caress. Dreams followed Arden Janelle into the darkness. Tortured nightmares that were twisted mockeries of all his triumphs and myriad failures.

“I hope this isn’t another futile attempt at a takeover,” he spat.

The gobbet marked the sand, a dancing blanket of war’s promise. He stood ready as ever at the centre of the Citadel’s easterly dome. A letter, three days prior, summoned the swordsman to the island of Corone from his safe haven in Scara Brae. Returned to the Scara Scourge anew, he had to wonder just how his ‘prospective partner’ had discovered his whereabouts, never mind that of the Golden Hall – the Scourge’s stronghold.

“My client was adamant this is a sincere offer,” replied the monk.

Arden scrutinised the cowl that hid the Aibron’s face. Long versed in the Citadel’s ways, he had, over the years, learnt to read the atmosphere to gauge their truthfulness. He felt no ill-ease, and assumed good intent. All the same, he remained alert. Eyes peeled, heart pounding, the muscles in his thighs taut to break into a rampage and ruin.

“Forgive me,” he added, to ensure good standing remained when he left come sun’s fall. “It’s just I’ve many a bad experience with people who think themselves rivals.”

He reflected back to the days before the Scourge’s revival. The Thieves Guild, Scara Brae’s former villainy circle had attempted to wipe the Scourge from the map. They had failed. He would not let anyone try it again. An alliance was something he deeply longed for, but never had the swordsman found someone worthy of the White Hand.

“He comes,” said the monk, oblivious to the admission. He turned and walked away, silent and reverent, and left Arden with his doubts and insecurities.

“Nothing changes,” the swordsman chuckled, nerves abandoned, the beast within braced for the proving of points at sword’s tip.

The sun shone. The blue skies hummed with promise. The door ahead, from whence his ‘partner’ would emerge, closed and foreboding. He took a deep breath, ran his tongue over his fangs, and rested his hand loosely about the hilt of Kerria, his sword.

[Tobias Stalt]

Footfalls echoed through the dimly lit hall. Where the fire did not reach, darkness prevailed and in those shadows, whispers ruled the world. Each step the hooded figure took loosed a new string of thoughts, another conspiratory wager. As he neared the neared the massive doorway, it gave him pause. The Citadel was old, more so than documented history. Its origins were shrouded in mystery.

Carved intricately into the wood were murals of combat. Heiroglyphs that depicted bloody victory and defeat immemorial. Locked in constant struggle were forces represented by two warring bodies, bereft of gender or emotion. His thoughtful golden eyes studied the scene from beneath the hood, and he marveled for a moment at the history here.

All that was remembered, and that was forgotten.

Wordlessly he pressed forward, fighting with the door itself for a moment before it whined its ancient protest and yielded to him. Sunlight seared his eyes and the hot breath of a desert forced him to wince. Sand crunched beneath his weight as he stepped into the fray. Tobias frowned.

Shrouded in mystery, the arts of the Ai'Bron stank of something he understood all too well. Down to the smallest grain of sand, all of it was a lie. The prospect of weaving an entire world disgusted him. Creatures with the power to fabricate a vivid false reality had the potential to do great evil. Yet they chose to serve in a modest capacity, pledged to life as keepers of the ancient ways. It made him uneasy every time he thought of it.

Tobias concerned himself instead with the man opposite himself. He peeled back the dark hood that shrouded his face to reveal his still young face. His chestnut hair tossed about in the dry breeze, and he fought it down with an irritated hand. In contrast to his other features, both eyes seemed tired and dull.

"Looks like you made it here first," the Mercenary greeted. "Sorry I took so long."

The apology sounded more hollow than sincere, but it was more seeped in ceremony than etiquette. "Let's get to it," he added, punctuating the fact that he held no desire to waste time on words. This time, words could wait.

[Arden]

Fortune was fickle to the hapless members of the Tantalum troupe. Here before Arden was Tobias Stalt. Of all the people to reach out from the shadows, why him? The swordsman kept his questions tallied, but did not ask them. There would be time for that after. This was, as far as the Maester was concerned, a simple business transaction. A debate on the future of two Great Houses, sundered by the necessities of a dying breed of misunderstood man.

Taking the man’s request to heart, Arden drew on the remnants of his power. Dying in the light of an age that forgot the Tap, it became harder and harder to remember how its swell made him feel in the days of old. Now, it was a hollow succubus’ cry. He directed two spheres of silence; one around himself, taking on the mantle of the Silent Swordsman, and one about his opponent.

Just as commencement were the terms lain down by his prospective partner, silence was his. Whilst communication was more than words and wisdoms, for now, only the cut of a blade and the expression of admission, of defeat, of mutual war torn understanding would conclude their bartering.

Arden unsheathed his sword as the arena changed. The sand turned to thick granite flagstones etched and worn with ancient elfin lyrics. He dropped the blade to his side, right hand firm, and eyes glowing craven red. His boots thudded in riotous applause as he sprinted ahead with a silent roar.