The Gathering of Fools

[Storm Veritas]

The sun was shining today, and it hit his face with a pleasant, warming splash. The sun peeked out as a bright white bulb behind a thin sheet of softly laid cotton clouds, the layer of which looked as able to burn away as it was to cover the lands in rainfall. Perhaps it was for the best that the rains would cease – Radasanth had a way of smelling foul when its gutters and alleys backed up with standing water. Today would be dry, bright, and beautiful.

He smiled into it, happy to let his tanned skin soak up the sunshine. It made him look more becoming, more charming, more trustworthy. For whatever reason, he had found out long ago that the people he dealt with didn’t trust a pale-faced man. There was something unhealthy about it, something nefarious they would associate with the whole ordeal.

That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. Trust the pretty face, so far as you can throw it.

He had to wear a different face in this land, because the look and appeal of Storm Veritas that the crowds had come to know was horrifying. He was an animal, a monster, and was more wanted upon Radasanth than perhaps any villain that had graced the face of the planet. Still the same, he came back. He always came back. He needed the action, and lusted for it.

His beard was soft against his face, but short and taut to a narrow, pointed jaw. His bright, brilliant gray eyes hummed with life and vibrance, and his long black hair was pulled tight against his head. In a full light tweed suit, he looked every bit the businessman. A bright smile lit his face as he gazed across the center of Radasanth. It was a cobbled circle, surrounded by two-story, flat-faced shops that held such complicated titles as “Shoppe” and “Food” upon them. Around the ring of shining white cobble, a single row of hand driven wooden carts were parked and setting up shop.

“Paper! Paper ‘ere! Word is that a fugitive is loose in town! Read all about it! Paper ere!” The cry of a paperboy called out to all listeners, squeaking, chipper, high-pitched. Storm looked at the cover page of the periodical, noting a hand-drawn sketch bearing no resemblance to his own visage upon it. He was safe, for now.

But sh*t… safe is no fun!

Safe –was-, in fact, no fun, and he would have to set out and change that. There was far too much fun to be had in this little center, and it would be a damned shame to waste so fine a day.

[Goth Culture Reference]

The scene was set as it had been a thousand times before. Some drab basement converted into a seedy little tavern, packed with a midday rush of customers thirsty for a stiff drink that would tide them over until five o'clock; that's when the real debauchery started. For now people preformed a sort of self medication, keeping in a constant state of the unaware until a time when it would be more suitable and acceptable to leave with vomit stains on their tunics and slurs in their speech.

Every so often the sun would make an unwanted appearance, followed quickly by the sound of a heavy set man making sort work of aged stairs. The creak had long given out in them, so covered in muck and filth that they were insulated from any sound the could possibly disturb the doldrum. Smoke fled the cellar when the door did open, quickly replaced by a fresh batch released from worn sets of lungs.

Indeed, the only distraction from the individual ignorance was the occasional snicker from a far off table. Two men sat at it, each a contrasting view of the other. One man, wearing a tricorn hat and matching long coat, sat with the utmost prestige. He had a certain posture about him, with a look of pure annoyance on his face that quickly dismissed any notion that nobility.

The second man was different, different even for Althanas. He was young, and wore chains and clothe, all wrapped about a black tailcoat that had seen better days. What was left of his undershirt looked more like an embalming shroud then anything a living person would be caught dead in. His boots were long and black, giving him an extra five inches to height. And as he sat at the small, splintered table was more than just casual. If the table wasn't there in fact, one might assume he was awaiting a suitor.

Both men held tightly in their hands a set of cards, with random ones thrown about the surface face up. The game was poker, plain and simple, but the older man seemed to take it all just a bit more seriously. "Hurry up and show your hand." His speech was blunt and unpleasing to the ears.

"Aren't our finest moments when the chips are down?" retorted the second, more boyish one. He had a strange smile on his pale face that seemed rather natural. The gentleman merely nodded to him, shuffling the cards in his hand back and forth, occasionally wiping the growing amount of spit upon his lips. Underneath his arms sat a rather lackluster pile of coins and it was easy to tell that he was losing the game.

"You've yet to tell me your name. I want to know." There was only silence; silence not just from the younger man, but from the entire bar that had the eerie quality of feeling right in place.

Finally, the young man laid his hand on the table; three aces and a pair of fives. "There's something to be said about such brusqueness," he sighed. "But I suppose if you want to label me something, you could call me the winner. It seems passable enough." The grin had expanded to include every inch of the young man's face with such blazon arrogance that he couldn't help but be right. The older gentleman folded without a word, though amused by his competitors antics.

"I didn't expect to come in here and lose all my money, Mr. Winner"

"And I wasn't big on playing cards with Grandpa Moses, but damned if it hasn't proven itself worthy of my time." The was short chuckle cut short my a hacking cough somewhere in the backdrop. "The ambiance here needs some work."

"Well, I'll tell you what. I only get so much gold stipend from my merchant fleet, but I do happen to have a ticket that you might be interested in." He waited for his white-faced friend to lean in more before continuing. "They're to a little party that's being held tonight; a gambling party. But it's more than just that. It's filled drinks and good times, new friends. And dancing girls, the kind that come right up to your table and ask your name. Hmm..." The older man spent a few more moments with his head in the clouds, smiling at the thought he'd created.

"Calm down Sparky. Lets not tip the table over," said the winner as he carefully kissed his index finger in satisfaction. Erection humor never went out of style.

"Well, I can't use them anyways. My ship leaves tonight and I was planning on selling them anyways. I just think - "

"You like this idea better because it's a sure way to keep your coinage?"

"Indeed Mr. Winner." Another exchange of pleasant looks and soft laughter inferring both men with some sort of connection. "May I ask something?" asked the older man, not waiting for an answer. "You're not from around here, are you?"

A look of surprise came over the flustered youth. "Why, I'd blush if I wasn't wearing so much make-up. What would ever give you that idea. Ignoring my great hygiene and what not, I'm like everyone else in this country."

[Storm Veritas]

The entire square was a tease. It was like one grand opera of the hapless; men, women, and children just begging to be stripped free of such taxing burdens as frivolous wealth, personal possessions, privacy, and their own general well being. It would be easy to rob these people blind, or to kill them all, and he could do so with very little fear of reprisal. These morons couldn’t catch him, stop him, or even likely slow him, and he would carve his way through them like a warm knife through butter.

It would be too easy; the lackluster challenge something that would not satiate his desire for the entertainment perverse. There was some respite in the simple kill – a hooker that would never be missed, or perhaps a transient that littered an alley with his own filth. Even this satisfaction, however, was fleeting, something that he knew would also bring unto him far too much heat.

Hell, last time I had a little fun they chased my skinny ass all the way to Salvar. That place is WAY too goddamned cold for human blood. Not worth a fun afternoon, having to go back there.

His eyes darted about from stand to stand, very aware of the lack of metal objects. Most carts were wooden, and the trinkets they bore were predominately fruit and fish laden. Some held pottery, others toys, but only a few sparsely distributed metal objects were dotted about the square. He sighed, a cast of resignation. He had so wanted to test out his newer abilities, and show off his talents to the world.

Or maybe just have a load of fun and not get caught for a change. That would be a welcome change.

His eyes were now moving from spot to spot as he bit into a particularly crisp apple. The sweet, pleasant taste was soothing, bringing him comfort and slowing that wanton thirst for all things hedonistic. It was too early for women, too soon after his last puke for beer, and cigarettes were a terrible annoyance to roll and smoke.

It was at this time when he saw the object of his affection. A knight had entered town. This fool walked with the high and mighty pomp and swagger befitting the royal guard of Radasanth, yet upon inspection it was immediately obvious that he was some nomadic self-starter. His arrogance was exuded like the long blonde hair that ran down to his shoulders, and his too-tanned face was far too pretty to have seen much battle. With much vitriole did Storm eye the women of the square fawning for him, one such whore doing so much as to run up to him and grab his iron-clad bicep.

Oh hell no. you gotta be shitting me. This punk is gonna stroll in and grab all the ass in town? Hell no. Hell f*cking no. Not on my watch.

From some distance, Storm slowly approached. A nervous smile was proffered to the knight, the same tentative, sheepish thing that was the norm for peasants seeking a blue-blood’s approval. From some fifteen feet Veritas glared, sizing up the amount of metal that adorned the thick, strapping young twenty-something. The boy was at least six foot three, and no less than two hundred and forty pounds. This would be fun.

“Morning, sir. Pleasant stay.”

With a simple send off, Storm turned his back and walked away, grinning as he considered the circumstance. Things could be a lot worse with this one, and he laughed at himself as he figured out the next move. One quick turn had him nestling into a fruit stand, eyeing a mango halfheartedly as he watched the newcomer stroll about. It was when the man had reached the periphery of the square that Storm made his move.

From ten feet away, Veritas raised a single hand toward the man, a barely discernable gesture in the grand scheme. His fingers briefly flashed white, the same electric energy that had made him infamous about Radasanth.

Yet today, instead of the mighty electric pulse, there was merely a dull thump as he endorsed a mighty wave of the same electromagnetic energy that none upon Althanas could hope to comprehend. Without turning his face to the knight, he watched in his periphery as the man soared backwards, directly away from Storm. A terrified shriek arose from those about him, but none could explain why the man went crashing down a set of stairs and through a wooden door.

It took strength not to laugh, and Veritas forced his teeth through the apple to stifle a mighty chuckle. This new trick was tremendous. He went to assess his work, to “help” the boy, bumbling down into the darkness where many had collected. Inside, although it was barely an hour to noon, several were drinking, socializing, and arguing around a table that was littered with cards.

[Goth Culture Reference]

The mood was ruined in almost an instant as a glimmering figure crashed down the stairs. Headaches from hangovers ripped through the patrons as each one moaned just a little, the pounding in their heads growing all the more excruciating. The discussion at the card table was put on hold for the moment as the older gentleman jumped up to go help the young man, who struggled to unbend his form which humorously kept his head and hindquarters close together. And through it all, the goth found it hard not to laugh. "Is it the knight with his head in his ass? Or the fact that he took down an old waitress on his way down, not like she was immune to gravity herself." In no attempt to hide his jovial smile, the devil merely got up from his seat and strode across the smokey haze of the room. The pub had gone ominously silent once the crashing and headaches ad died down. Only a few whispers ran through the crowd there; whispers filled with unkind words. The gnarled tables stopped rocking, the room stopped spinning; all that was left was the smell of stale beer and urine and the company of other drunks.

Yet the goth's footsteps echoed through the ruined halls. The knock of heavy boots on wood, or the crackle of a bar nut crushed underfoot. The chains that hung loosely from his clothing shook like only the spirit of Jacob Marley had down before.

"Is he alright?' the goth smirked, a fiery laughter bubbling under the surface. The gentleman was comforting the young knight; who seemed shaken up from his experience.

"I'm fine," the knight said bluntly. Pride dictated a certain code to him, and the goth could tell that any help from himself would be denied outright.

"Perhaps you should go get him some water, Mr. Winner."

"I said I'm fine. I don't need to repeat myself. I only lost my balance, the heat must be too much outside."

"I was outside earlier. The heat seemed quite manageable." The the boy wanted to have a little fun.

"Well it's gotten worse since you snuck into this pit." There was a cold silence that even the sharpest blade couldn't cut. Hubris was in overdrive for the young man, and the goth found it hard to resist kicking him while he was down, whether figuratively or literally.

[Storm Veritas]

The little rationale he had in his head was simple. He had his fun, it was time to let the bumbling, ego-checked knight go about his way. Let the young fool get up, brush off the dust, and go about his way. There was no reason to simply pick on the boy, who stood foolhardy and tried to explain that which was inexplicable.

Storm had wandered close, laying hands upon the fine fruit at the closest carved teakwood farmstand. He pulled a pomegranate close to his ear and tapped it, not knowing what in the blue hell people did that for. It made him look authentic while he eavesdropped, as if he’d actually pay for such a preposterous fruit.

The boy was justifying himself, in an argument with a group of tavern low-brows that had started their day of drinking and gambling while the sun was still high and the women graced the streets in lighter fare. While there was a time where he seemed adverse to the sun, he had since gotten over it. There was something about the way a sun shined off a girl’s forehead that made his pursuit of afternoon delight all the more worthwhile.

Boy, you’re a damned fool. Just don’t say anything and get out of there.

He slowly made for the stairs placing down the rose colored ovum into the rack and leering upon the knight, whose armor failed to shine in the dim candle-light of the morning crowd. Amidst these three-toothed dregs he still appeared heroic, acting haughty and holier-than-thou. A smile peaked at the edge of Storm’s mouth, a wave of a grin forming like the rising tide.

“Yeah, you’re right…” he interrupted, a sinister shit-eater adorned upon his face. “That heat is a sonofabitch, isn’t it?”

With that, he stood before the knight, standing tall some ten feet away, his chin cupped in his left hand. His right stretched out a bit, grasping at air, pulling in a taut fist, and then extending forth with an energy that was both invisible and unmistakable. The second wave of electromagnetic radiation burst forth, and down went the knight, along with a tin stein of mead that sat upon one particularly sturdy table.

His hands fell upon his hips as he laughed, glaring at the room full of browbeat drunks. Now this could be fun, playing around with this band of imbeciles. Of course, maintaining anonymity would be difficult, but with his gruff beard and slightly tweaked voice, he may not have been identified just yet. Besides, as infamous as the lightning wielder was, Veritas had never shown his magnetic manipulation skills in Radasanth.

What the hell are you gonna do, though? Torch the place? Start tipping those metal steins over people’s heads? Sure, it’s fairly funny, but then your secret’s out.

It was then that he decided upon playing pinball with the knight, pushing him about the room by his thick steel chestplate. Oh, how well it took to Storm’s new gift! Sadly, first he would need the boy to stand back up, and Veritas aimed to give the lad a chance to speak again before tossing him about once more.