A Man's Gotta Eat ((open))

[Tyrion]

"Yeah, so the guy was lookin' around for her, waving his massive blade around, thinking he was gonna be able to take this one out no problems, right?"

"Hehe, yeah."

"The all of a sudden, the little cat girl comes out of no where and gets this guy in the kidney with a knife!"

"Damn."

"Yeah, then she pulls it out, and just as he starts to fall over she brings it 'round and catches him in the throat!"

"Hah! Showed him."

"Oh yeah, it was great. I made eighty gold on that bet."

Tyrion chuckled a little bit, and put his fork down on his plate. If nothing else, he loved coming to this inn for the regulars. They always told the greatest stories, ones of romance, wild adventures and unbelievable combats. But this time, it gave him an idea.

"Miss? I'm done."

Tyrion motioned for the waitress to come and grab his plate up. He was going to go to this "Citadel", maybe make himself a little money. After his recent departure from the military, he found his savings that he’d been collecting were running out. And from what he could tell from some of the stories he heard, the people who visited this arena were usually fresh kids who just went and bought their first blade. Should be no problem against a seasoned trooper like himself.

"Alrighty Tyr, two gold, as usual."

He pulled five gold from his pouch and dropped it on the table, standing from his seat. It had to be about a week that he'd been eating here now, and the staff was starting to actually get to know him.

"Thanks Claire. Get something for yourself, I've got something to go do."

"Hehe, have fun."

She kissed him on the cheek, and he headed out to the Citadel.

When he arrived, it was more then he could imagine. The sheer size and detail put into the building astounded him. He walked down the long hall, his plated leather boots echoing off the massive architecture. Once he finally got to the end, he was greeted by one of the many monks.

"Why hello there! Welcome to the Citadel! Ex-military, I see?"

Tyrion looked around for a moment to make sure the monk was talking to him.

"Which country? Radasanthian, I presume?"

"Uhh. . . you must have me confused with somebody else. . ." Tyrion replied, trying to hide it. What could have given him away? He had new clothes, not like he was going to be walking around town in battle dress.

"Nonsense, your swagger, your stance, the way you wear your blade," the monk pointed toward his sheath, "and the combat boots don't help your disguise." The monk grinned.

"But don't worry about it. The only opponent you'll find here, will be in there." The monk commented, pointing in the direction of one of the arena doors. "Now, if you'll come this way and step through this door, your opponent will join you soon enough."

Tyrion stepped through and felt the door close behind him. Time to move.

((whoever decides to join, you can come up with an arena, I'm not feeling all too creative right now.))

[Leon Adalbert]

Leon Adalbert gazed at the grandeur and beauty of the Citadel's entry chamber, wondering how the Ai'bron monks ever afforded the construction of such an arena. I'd heard the stories, he thought, but nothing prepares you for the real thing, it seems.

After staring around for a few minutes, like many of the other newcomers to this place of battle, Leon spotted a swordsman being led by one of the aesthetics into a waiting room down the hall. Perfect. He's the one I want to test myself against.

Leon broke into a run, dashing down the hall to the door the two men had retreated through, his soft soles padding on the marble floor with each step, and his leather coat trailing behind. When he at last reached the door, he stopped for a moment to catch his breath, and slowly turned the knob, entering into a simple, well-decorated room to find a man who held himself like a soldier waiting in the center. The room was small, about twenty feet by thirty feet, compared to the grand hall the merchant's son had just left behind him. On the right wall was a simple sofa with soft, but not overly-expensive looking, cushions of red. At either end of the sofa sat small round end-tables of a dark wood, possibly cherry or mahogany. Against the left wall was a small bookcase, with several well-known books on swordsmanship, tactics, magic, and the like. At the far end of the room, a large oak door with brass knobs and reinforced hinges stood out from the rest of the decor. A rather important-looking doorway, he thought. Probably leads to the arena. I remember my father's friends mentioning that the monks can create any battlefield you like beyond those doors, regardless of realism or size.

The young man flashed a smile as he closed the door, stepping lightly into the chamber. "I thought I might find an opponent here," he said. "Leon Adalbert, son of Terrence Adalbert and Founder of the Merchants' Confederation, at your service." He bowed slightly as he said this, a matter of formality only, and not a show of submission. "Perhaps we might do battle in the world-famous Great Tavern of Ettermire?" he suggested to the monk, testing the aesthetic's knowledge of such things.