The match begins at Midnight 7/31/2009 and ends at Midnight 8/15/2009.
Best wishes to both participants!
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The match begins at Midnight 7/31/2009 and ends at Midnight 8/15/2009.
Best wishes to both participants!
Out of Character:
The age-beaten senior hunched over his work, oblivious to the line that grumbled and sniffed for a whole city block in Radasanth’s fierce summer sun. His fingers milled slowly about the hilt of a sheathed sword, a blade that was more rapier than anything, but the man certainly would not have been able to lift it on his own. His fingers creaked and groaned from the tying of an invisible knot around the top of the sheath. He finally signalled his completion by dropping his arms and smiling in wrinkled satisfaction. The finely dressed doorman, formerly holding the sword for the old mage to ply his spell, handed the weapon back to its owner, Lord Gavin Macgowan.
Unbeknownst to those standing in the courtyard of the Lieselotte Family Manor, this guest was only Gavin Macgowan today. Any other day, he would be known simply as Shadar, and the slightly plump woman on his arm, Lady Genevieve Macgowan, would have otherwise been called Brigitte. But, today, with the Macgowans’ invitation in their possession, that was who they were.
The path that had brought them to the antechamber of one of Radasanth’s most revered buildings certainly wasn’t the stuff of legends. The pompous tarts here might even sniff at it. Imagine, two immortals wandering the land, not doing good or raining down evil, but poking in mailboxes. They had learned many things about the Radasanthian upper-class in the last few nights; what publications they subscribed to, what weasely relatives had to say in hopes of securing inheritance, even what objects they considered too uncouth to purchase in public. More investigators than thieves, Shadar and Brigitte had pocketed none of it until stumbling across the invitation, and the overflow from their box implied that the Macgowans wouldn’t be available to partake in the Expedition Antiquities of Althanas’ first visit to Radasanth. A pity, that. After a quick peek in the estate, purely to research the family portraits, the two were well on their way to entering the fabled Lieselotte Manor wearing the Lord and Lady’s own skins… illusions of them, at least.
“Let me know if you start feeling sick,” Shadar whispered as he leaned over Lady Macgowan’s arm and the voluminous feather shawl that hung from it. The true Lady herself would never have gone out in public with such an obnoxious accessory, but the illusion of it did well to hide Brigitte’s true nature. The same could not be said for the illusionary multi-layered dress and footwear, which did little to hide her strong stride and the click of talons on marble.
“I’m fine,” Brigitte responded, her harsh voice spilling from the classic Macgowan face, narrow from the purported elven heritage, soft and pouty from too many maids and sweets. She seemed to blend in, though, and more surprising, she seemed to like it. The woman’s thick shell kept men’s objectifying eyes from her pervertedly sculpted body, sparing her the shame that her creator had wanted her to endure. Shadar’s guise was simpler, an aged sheen to his ageless skin, a darkening of his hair and a pinch of his face. It felt like all illusions; like nothing. But, he somehow felt claustrophobic in it.
You’re the one who‘s getting sick, snapped a voice in Shadar’s head, where the dream demon known as Diamond Jackal resided, his eternal irritant and Brigitte’s cruel creator.
Shadar didn’t bother to engage the demon in an internal dialogue. Firstly, it would only annoy him more, and secondly, Jackal was right. Spying on the rich snobs’ mail had been a stealthy mud-in-your-eye gesture. He would never have imagined it landing him neck deep in the fools. But, if the invitation was to be believed, even slightly, the trip would be worth it.
Treasures unearthed from the greatest of Althanas’ tombs and dungeons, magical artifacts that have given rise to kingdoms and wealth from the heavens, as well as the latest information on tomorrow‘s most astounding discoveries, he repeated to himself as he and his lady moved to the outskirts of the main hall. It took a full minute to do so, the room was that expansive and crowded. A total of twenty thick columns were needed to support the roof. Great marble oaks, sprouting lit sconces for branches. The trek took them crossways through a herd of strolling nobles, and not a stitch of clothing touched in the intersection. The true upper-class, it seemed, could walk around an obstacle without the slightest acknowledgement of its existence. Shadar bit his lip, he had been an assassin for most of his pre-immortal life. How was he less surefooted than them?
The first table they came to did not raise his spirits much. In an almost altar-like display was something called The Sword of the Eternal Tap. Its curved blade shone with a rainbow of colors as if the source of magic truly dwelt in the metal, but only when one shifted their head did they get the rippling effect of that supposed internal power. Shadar had spoken to smiths before about the technique of coating a blade in glass to increase lustre, a practice so impractical and expensive that it was rarely done. However, with an auction later in the evening and so many walking purses about, the proprietors of this little show would get their money back five fold.
Brigitte seemed to enjoy the colors of the forgery, but Shadar towed her onward, and in doing so took them within arm’s length of one of the attraction’s guards. He looked as stately as the doorman, dressed in the thick black and crimson ruffles of the Lieselotte Family’s crest. But, he was clearly as transient as the inventory on display. His eyes gave it away; cold, weathered orbs looking toward the coins at the end of a long road and burning through any troublemakers who got in the way. Shadar unconsciously brushed his free hand over the sword at his hip. It was nothing but a prop fashioned after a blade that the Lord had been painted with, and it seemed to fit even more snugly in the sheath than before. An experimental tug revealed that the old mage’s magic was far more genuine than the exhibits. No doubt, the guard’s own sword had not received the same treatment, so the odds were stacked in their favour. Or so they thought.
Shadar’s false face reflected the wry smirk on his real one as he imagined what damage he could do should the rest of this ordeal prove fruitless.
Standing out was a new sensation for Wil. His whole life he had blended into crowds of similarly dressed, like-minded citizens making their way through the thousands of identical streets and archways of a sprawling metadimensional metropolis. With a gate that could open to an infinite array of worlds, the inhabitants were all human, moreover all a specific race that had homogenized over the centuries. Blond hair and blue eyes, while still present in about a fourth of the population were the rarest traits present, and Wil had both. But that was a mere eccentricity of genetics. No one ever stared at him, not the way the old wizard stared at him now.
"Let me see your invitation again," he muttered in a tired voice. The line behind Wil let out a collective exasperated sigh and began turning to one another with looks of displeasure. "Wilhelm Bosche, Uiria University Historian? Do they not pay you enough to dress for the occasion?"
Every person around him seemed to be on the verge of creating a scene, but none of this bothered Wil. He was prepared to accept Althanas, his new home, the good with the bad. He snatched the forged invite back from the old man and slipped it into a pocket beneath his leather armor. In a sea of frills and adornments, he was dressed in a plain cotton undershirt and breeches with his brown leather guards still fasted securely.
"If your patrons really want to gamble on the authenticity of the artifacts, they're welcome to do so. I'm sure they have money to burn. As for me, my time has been paid for whether I work or not, so I'm happy to be on my way," Wil smiled and feigned a turn for a mere second before the old man relented.
"Get inside, but first give me that tacky weapon on your hip," he grumbled and cast his binding spell over the blade, securing it to its sheath. To Wil, the concept of security was one of many strange historical curiosities that his new home featured. To be sure, there were guards in Architelos, but they were more statuary than security, men and woman that derived some pleasure from standing endlessly still in suits of glistening powered armor as a reminder of military glories long past.
These thoughts occupied the traveler's mind as he walked briskly past the entryway and into the exhibition proper. The collection displayed therein was a stunning assortment of items from weapons to house wares, all of it heaped with history and prestige. Wil's eyes danced over the stalls gleefully as he tried to settle on a goal. Should he delve into the rich history of this land, or take the chance on something even more exciting, finding an artifact of his own people nestled within the detritus?
It was the first time, and far from the last, that he would long for a piece of technology from his homeland. As with any man on vacation, Wil had forgotten a great many things, the significance of which only became apparent once they were gone. This time it was a scanner, a simple instrument that would separate wheat from chaff and save what could be hours of eye-straining.
There was nothing to be done for it, he thought, and resolved to wander until something specific caught his eye. Whether it was Eudaemonian or just a curious bit of history didn't matter. Everything here was an exciting new opportunity, a carnival of discovery.
Clowns and children, Shadar stewed. His fingers rapped upon the corner of an ornate table, carved facsimiles of flora crawling up the legs. The crowd pressing against this one had halted his and Brigitte's circuit of the room.
Excuse me?
It's all an expensive circus. Just look at them. He gestured toward the nobles just inches in front of him, and he earned a few awkward glances for it. One young brunette in a forest green, high-necked gown, clearly misinterpreting it as a greeting, made a slight curtsy. Shadar diverted his eyes toward the trinkets on display before she could start a conversation.
Unlike the exhibits near the front of the hall, their supposed value obvious just by their names, these ones were tended by hawkers. They weren't the street variety, of course, with their immaculately tailored suits and glowing smiles. They didn't even perform any actual transactions, leaving that for the evening's auction. Their only task was to spin tales, and by extension, loosen purse strings.
"Are you interested in this piece, milady?" asked the nearest, aiming his barb-tipped words at the woman in green like an angler lining up his cast. He lifted an impractically large amulet from its velvet bedding and present it for viewing as gingerly as if it were made from sugarcane.
"It's very lovely," the young lady agreed diplomatically. Shadar glanced at her as she spoke and noticed that she was only now turning away from him. Was his illusion slipping? He hastily refocused his mind's eye on that portrait of Lord Macgowan. Long nose, faint lines -definitely not laugh lines-, and a tempered bitterness in the eyes. He certainly felt that way at the moment, so it was unlikely he had broken character.
He looked toward Brigitte in case her guise was faltering. It was, but not from his lack of concentration. Her head was tilted to the point that her ear nearly touched the thick shawl over her shoulder, and her eyes, false as they were, still managed to shine with the curiosity of a child.
"Nose up," Shadar reminded her quietly. Brigitte turned to him, somewhat startled. He smiled and leaned closer, whispering, "Act like there's a horrible stink on the floor and you need to get your nose as far away from it as possible." She took a moment to consider, then set her head in a position that made Lady Macgowan's pouty features look completely at home.
Shadar nodded and turned back to the hawker who clearly was a master of his craft. He had done nothing but hold the amulet up to the light, tilting it slowly to find the perfect angle that brought a sparkle to the young woman’s eyes , and just like that, she was happily chewing on the hook. “There’s quite a story to this piece,” he began with sweetly baited words, and many of the nobles at the table fell under the same spell. “Two generations ago, it belonged to the Jya, or Queen, of Fallien. The sole ruler, the stories tell of her as a stern, yet gentle woman and a courageous leader.” The young woman’s eyes sparkled, seeing in the multifaceted gems, perhaps, a strong mother figure that had been lacking in her childhood.
Shadar winced and turned away. The skill with which the hook had been set was enough to make him jealous, and the story itself may even be almost true, but if he looked at the woman’s face a moment longer, he’d slap the stupid clean out of her.
“Come on,” he said as he turned to Brigitte. She looked down her nose at him, and her illusion’s face smiled with what was, no doubt, a proud grin underneath. “Good girl,” he chuckled. They left the rapt crowd and merged with the sea of festively coloured gowns at the center of the room. Momentarily, a flash of brown caught his attention, and Shadar stepped toward it without thinking. It quickly disappeared among the gilded bodies, though, leaving him to wonder if he had just seen a pigeon among the peacocks.
A few minutes perusing the items on offer dulled Wil's enthusiasm. Most were as gaudy as the surroundings, all flash and no significance. Even the historical tales meant to entice people were short-sighted. Jewel encrusted swords were the ceremonial weapons of ancient kings, amulets were worn on the day of coronation of some great dutchess. Wil would much rather see a rusted iron dagger that sealed the fate of a deposed emperor than the velvet nightgown he wore in the peaceful days of his early reign.
"What a waste of time. None of these histories are even worth verifying. Even if they were true, they wouldn't add anything to the items. Their value is entirely wrapped up in the materials. There's no substance to any of them," he complained aloud, half hoping to be kicked out.
A few eyes turned to him but little more. Most seemed to glance at him only long enough to show that they were aware, but intentionally ignoring him. Wil sneered at them as long as they were willing to look. In Architelos, snobbery was common enough, but there was truthfully little alternative for those who were ambitious. The social hierarchy was the only significant challenge left. Everything else was provided on a silver platter. Here, one could be so much more than a cloistered noble. It was frankly sickening that people would make the choice willingly. He felt like a man, born blind, listening to the sounds of the sighted gouging their own eyes out for fun.
"If you're looking for something meaningful, come right over here. Not so old as some of these trinkets, but with more history in a few short years than some bejeweled goblet will ever have."
The voice came from a stall crammed uncomfortably into a corner, completely empty of wares. Things were set up such that it would receive virtually no foot traffic and with the attitudes of the people here, if it didn't absolutely jump out and grab them, they weren't going to put forth the effort. The man sitting behind it wore a white robe immediately recognizable to Wil, but probably just foolish looking to any of the ignorant nobles milling about. It was a Makarios initiate's robe, second rank by the blue collar. The man wearing had the right skintone to be an Asiatic Eudaemonian, but it was difficult to be sure, so Wil decided to keep his mouth shut. For all he knew, the vendor stuck a knife between some second rank initiate's ribs and looted the rest of his wares.
"Well then, go on," Wil said. It was all he could do to remain cautious and reserved as the merchant drew a length of polished silver metal from under the stall. It was a couple meters high, shaped like a spear. Wil recognized it immediately, but allowed the man to explain, hoping it would give a clue to his intentions.
"Ever heard of the Corone Invasion?"
"Can't say as I have," he said as calmly as he could manage. His hand was already twitching anxiously behind his back. Wil had read every single report ever written on it, a spectacular strategic blunder that nearly destroyed Eudaemonian civilization.
"Few people have, even here in Corone and only a couple decades back. This was the opening salvo of the conflict, a transmitter that projected a message from Director Bosche to all the citizens of Corone, requesting their surrender. Still works, even."
The man looked old enough that he could remember that. Perhaps one of them simply fell into his back yard, Wil imagined. He waited, as the vendor placed the transmitter back under the table and produced a weather-worn metallic hilt. As he went on to explain it, he began speaking in heavily accented but surprisingly articulate Eudaemonian.
"Probably a lot of people could tell you this is an energy sword, but I can tell you who owned it: Belial Mephisto, first born son of the late Executor. Still tuned precisely to the resonance frequency of his father's blade," he mused and ignited the blade, producing a sharpened stream of arcing plasma about the same length as the sword magically jammed in Wil's sheath.
"Twenty-seven point nine," Wil responded. It was one of the few superstitions he knew Arius to have. Resonance frequencies have virtually no effect on a blade when used in battle, but no matter what blade he used, state-issued, stolen, or self-made, it was always set to that frequency. "You obviously recognize me as a Eudaemonian if you're telling me all this, in my own language no less. How many of us are there here?"
"Us nothing. I'm an Althanian conscript. Made second rank initiate with the Makarios before they collapsed. Haven't seen another Eudaemonian since then, except the Mephistos."
All reservation was impossible at this point. "You've met them!? I'd have thought they'd all be dead by now!"
The old Makarios man raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Arius died a few years ago. His son isn't even your age."
Wil continued to inquire about the man's expertise with increasing excitement, slowly unraveling the startling time difference between the two planes. Thirty years here amounted to centuries in the Eternal City. As the two conversed, they drew more and more dissatisfied looks from the high-society types. To their ears, the two shabby looking men were speaking nothing but gibberish, and unpleasant sounding gibberish at that.
Three tables away from the street-clothed pigeon, Shadar pretended to look over a display of shirt blades and armour pieces. "You have an appreciation for practicality, don't you sir?" offered the moustachioed hawker hovering over them, "These articles are enchanted, used in actual combat, you see.” Shadar’s eyes stared blankly at the repainted guards and chipped blades as he tried to listen to the conversation from the bare corner table. The man across from him, clearly expecting some degree of awe, pressed harder. “These armguards,” he lifted the pair and presented them under Shadar’s nose, “were used by high ranking Rangers not more than a few seasons ago. They still hold the enchantment to ward off projectiles.”
Shadar raised a hand to them as if they might burn him, but his fingers only tingled. “It’s fading,” he sniffed. While there was indeed love up into the creation of the guards, far more than the supposed amulet of the Jya, as well as enough energy from previous owners to slightly repel his hand, he doubted that the guards had protected anyone in years. Proper enchanted armour, well serviced and well trusted, would have borne so much of its owner’s own aura as to openly resist his possession. These pieces, however, pushed back as half-heartedly as old men abandoned to slow decay by their children. Whatever enchantment remained could be equalled by tossing a moderate purse at a magically-inclined blacksmith, and a freshly crafted weapon wouldn’t carry the depressing weight of neglect. “Make sure they go to someone who will give them a purpose again,” Shadar said sternly as he made eye contact with the surprised vendor. Then, he drifted away before the man’s curiosity found voice.
With only half a mind paid to the hawker, he had kept an ear on Pigeon’s conversation, and alien words like “transmitter” began to pique his interest. He tried to approach casually at first, but soon gave up when he realized the stall was receiving more attention than the crowd’s wide berth implied. All around him and Brigitte, there were sideways glances for the leather-armoured lad and the robed man. Perhaps the nobles were concerned that fashion criminals were joining together to form a gang.
What was that about a transmitter… thing? Shadar asked his demon. Despite how well he made himself at home in the back of Shadar’s mind, Jackal had once existed in a plane where he could view and toy with all worlds. There seemed to be not a single anomaly, on Althanas or otherwise, that he didn’t have some information on. The trick was determining if his insight was useful or irrelevant off-world nonsense.
Some junk about sending a message to all of Corone, Jackal responded distractedly, But I know I remember that Bosche name from somewhere… His raspy voice faded as he scoured his own eternal memory.
Suddenly, the two began gibbering at each other. Heads turned incredulously and steps slowed. Shadar actually made contact with some wide dresses as he pushed to the very edge of the border that had formed between sophistication and uncouth weirdness.
“What are they….?” Brigitte began, Shadar’s sudden interest making her anxious.
Jackal belted out the answer so forcefully that Shadar’s head rang. I remember! They must be Eudaemonians!
Shadar pressed a hand to his forehead. Ewwdemon what?
A different world. It’s a screwed up place, so bloody peaceful that if they didn’t take field trips to other worlds, they’d have swallowed their own tongues long ago just to escape the boredom. I used to haunt their dreams, but they were too easy. You make a few hundred Eudaemonians pee their jammies, and the sport’s gone out of it.
A bladeless hilt in the vendors hand suddenly sprouted a thin stream of white-hot flame, and Shadar would have peed his own pants if his body still had that function. He was still capable of producing drool, at least, and that he did with gusto. “That!” he hissed urgently to Brigitte, “That is what makes this whole pointless trip worth it.” His face-splitting smile distorted the natural lines of Lord Macgowan’s face, and the crowd around them stepped back as if Shadar’s enthusiasm was both infectious and fatal. Only Brigitte remained at his side, bobbing up and down as the second-hand joy hit her brain. Her stoic masked looked just as ridiculous.
You think that’s impressive? Phaw! They’ve got garbage like that laying all over the place from old wars.
Shadar’s only response was a guttural impulse, roughly translating to, Me want. He strode forward so quickly that Brigitte’s feathered arm left his and crooked up to her side in a bird-like pose, very unbefitting of a Lady. She clicked along a pace behind him, her head tilting to look around his shoulders.
“Tell me how that works,” Shadar demanded the instant that he reached the table and planted his palms on it. His eyes flicked from the young man to the vendor, burning with a sense of entitlement that would have made the nobles applaud if they weren’t trying to find a dignified way of removing themselves from the bizarre scene.
"What did the Makarios want with you anyway? No offense intended, but those people aren't exactly the most accepting sort, and records from the Civil War are as spotty as they are unreliable," Wil continued. The real treasure was not the blade, or the transmitter, or anything else the man could possibly fit hidden under his stall. This Makarios ex-patriot was a priceless find, the sort of thing historians had dreamt of since time immemorial.
What if a Twentieth Century Terran could interview a man who still recalled the world before the steam engine? Or a Renaissance scholar capturing the recollections of a man who had seen the glory that was Rome? Or a medieval Pope speaking with a man who had actually seen the Christ? Perhaps the silly superstitions could have been put to rest earlier, Wil thought. So many holes in mankind's knowledge, missing pieces of the puzzle, and here was a man who could fill one of the dearest such omissions to Wil's heart.
"If you really want to know," the man was visibly flattered. It was clear that Althanians took little interest in his alien abduction stories. And he had certainly received little respect from the Makarios. What information the Directorate released painted them as brutal mind-benders, indoctrinating their followers through severe and invasive neurological procedures. "I was a young upstart psychic on a little island in the western sea. They picked me up and told me I was a 'psion.' Sounded real dignified then, but they may as well have said slave."
Just as their conversation was picking up, a man rushed up from the crowd and interjected himself. He seemed to fit in with the rest pretty well, except that he showed more than a disdainful interest in what was going on in this neglected little corner stall. The Makarios vendor looked to Wil to give an answer as turned the blazing energy blade ever so slightly toward the intruder.
"If things get ugly, I am trained for this sort of thing, you know," the man scoffed in his rusty Eudaemonian and rubbed his temple casually with his free hand.
"That won't be necessary. Yet," Wil answered him, before clearing his throat and continuing in Tradespeak. "I could explain it to you, but it would just waste your time. I just bought the whole of this man's collection."
He flashed a smile and extended his hand as his voice took on as formal an air as he could manage in a language he learned only from scattered reports. "Wilhelm Bosche, Uiria University Curator of Antiquities. And you are?"
Oh, that’s just lovely! Remember kids, when you have a question… just run up and bitch slap the answer out of the guy!
Shadar accepted the man’s handshake limply. The rapid chain of outburst, regret, and finally utter relief at the undeserved politeness left him too dumbfounded to speak. Even his thoughts were muddled for a second. Maybe he really is from a peaceful world, he managed to piece together, though referring to the world as ‘peaceful’ had to be an understatement. This man seemed to shake off Shadar's brash attitude, bare as it was in that moment, and remain totally composed, even friendly. The Ai’Brone themselves, emotionless bastards, would have been awed.
When Wilhelm released his hand, Shadar found his voice again. “Sorry for that, sir. I was… very impressed. I am Gavin Macgowan,” he said in the tight protocol-steeped voice that he imagined would fit with a face like the Lord’s. “And this is my wife, Genevieve.”
Shadar glanced toward Brigitte as he gestured, finding her head once again tilted curiously, though her wide eyes registered shock. What the…
Jackal had an answer immediately, which he relayed as best he could between huge guffaws of laughter. Wife! You hit a button. I bet she’s been waiting. Ball-less knockoff immortal, do you take this harpy to be your-
Shadar tamped the demon into the back of his skull and awkwardly looked away from Brigitte’s eyes. “Don’t break character,” he whispered in an illusionary voice that went straight to her ears and no one else’s. Dutifully, she righted her head, and a hint of sadness leeched through the mask. Shadar didn’t want to deal with it now, though, not with a whole pack of nobles aghast at the rudeness of one of their own. He could feel their disgust pressing into his back like cloud of wind-blown cinders. Fortunate, then, that he wasn’t able to sweat.
“As I was saying,” he said quickly so as to cut the awkward moment short, “That technology is… fascinating.” He could have used other words; words that would have shattered any dignity that he retained. If I could just have five minutes alone with that weapon…
That’d burn some orifices.
What?
Jackal sent Shadar a mental picture that would make grown men weep. Oh god… he retched. His face paled, though he didn’t know if it was visible through Macgowan’s age-browned skin. With a considerable effort, he scoured the image from his mind’s eye and tried to continue the conversation.
“If you would allow me to examine the sword,” he offered with sincerity that, by virtue of his disguise, seemed more suspect than he would have liked. “A few minutes, that’s all. I’m more experienced with off-world technologies than you might expect.” He smiled knowingly. With his eyes still on Wilhelm, searching for signs of suspicion in the man’s tranquil face, he held his palm out toward the vendor as if the robed man would simply offer him the glowing blade's hilt.
The man who spoke to him seemed significantly preoccupied, but Wil could not even begin to guess what might be floating through his alien mind. The world of Althanas was full of strangeness above and beyond that documented by his predecessors and he would not even presume to understand a fraction of it. What he did learn from the reports, and the Executor's autobiography especially, was not to trust Gamma Spacers who were fascinated with Eudaemonian technology.
The Directorate had no high-minded ideals about non-interference, the transmitter was proof enough of that. They had waged an all out war on people who, aside from their magical arsenal, had technology commensurate with the Terran Dark Ages. No, it had nothing to do with philosophy or the responsibility that comes with superiority. It was a purely practical consideration. If you have a gun and another man has a stick, you're only in charge as long as those conditions persist. In Arius Mephisto's exact words, "Do not give these hairless apes our guns."
Wil smiled politely as he remembered that passage and took the hilt from the vendor's hand without objection. The man eyed him suspiciously for a second, wondering if he really was going to just turn it over to this stranger, but his fears were quickly assuaged.
"I do not mean to question your veracity, sir, but if you were truly familiar with the technology you would realize this to be an unspectacular specimen. Nothing more than an energy core and a focusing matrix, it's really textbook construction," he spun the blade a bit about its axis and then extinguished it with a flick of his wrist, pocketing the hilt. "If you suspect otherwise, I'd be fascinated to hear your proposal. Perhaps the University might even offer you a visiting professorship while you study our artifacts."
Wil raised a hand to excuse himself for a moment as he turned back to the Makarios vendor and whispered to him. A reflex, volume aside, the odds of anyone in this crowd understanding Eudaemonian were approximately the same as being spontaneously struck by lightning on a clear day.
"Do you have a storage buffer you can put these things in? I think it would be best to be going soon. Perhaps we should pay the Mephistos a visit, eh?" he suggested quietly in the tongue the two shared.
The Makarios simply nodded and produced an object the size of a briefcase from beneath the counter. He pulled the tablecloth from his stall to reveal nothing else sitting beneath it, and took up a stance behind Wil. The Eudaemonian took the object in hand, confident at the bountiful contents stored within its compressed phase space.
"I'll be headed back to Uiria, I think. The auction of these remaining trifles will be tiresome, don't you agree Mr. Macgowan?" he switched back to his stilted Tradespeak as he turned back to the stranger. "You and your lovely wife are welcome to join me, if you have no further business here. I do hope you have transport though, it's quite a trek."
He doesn’t trust you, Jackal growled.
Shadar, lost in observing the smooth hum of the energy blade through the air, didn’t respond immediately. If one could get close enough to the sun, that would no doubt be the sound it made. Even the dousing of the blade seemed powerful and foreboding as the hum shrank into silence. The energy clearly remained, one gesture away from flashing violently to life. And he hadn’t even seen what the blade could do, yet.
Wait, did he just invite me along… to a university full of that technology? It seemed preposterous, especially after Shadar’s failed attempt at tech-talk left him looking like the usual Althanas bumpkin, and a scheming one to boot. That’s-
Pretty damn stupid, I know. Beats me how his people don’t get themselves killed off-world more often, the demon said suggestively, to which Shadar found himself smiling. While he didn’t plan to make full use of that vulnerability, at least to the point Jackal implied, it was comforting to know it existed.
“I’m feeling sick, now,” Brigitte suddenly whispered in his ear. She pressed her body to his arm and lay her head on his shoulder warily. He still felt the heat of disdain pressing in from the crowd, and Brigitte was a far more sensitive creature than him. It was a wonder she hadn’t mentioned it sooner.
“Don’t worry. We’re leaving,” he said as he took her feathered arm and led her in the wake of Wilhelm and the vendor-turned-ally. No one impeded him, as the elite gave Wilhelm a berth wide enough that Shadar only needed to travel down the corridor of airborne noses and whispered disgust. Brigitte’s closeness to him, still with her head leaning toward his shoulder, only intensified the gossip, but Shadar was beyond caring. He had already found the only decent plunder that lay under the Lieselotte Manor’s vaulted ceiling and vaulted egos.
Even the case carried by Wilhelm interested him. Shadar hadn’t missed the oddity of that being the only other item in the vendor’s supposed ‘collection’, and it held no mystery for him. Storage in disparate space was a technique that he understood far better than he pretended to understand energy weapons. He could only wonder, out of honest curiosity as opposed to the usual megalomania, how different their mechanisms for achieving the same thing really were.
As they neared the door, Shadar remembered the mage’s spell of sword binding. Now that the event had proven fruitless save for one avenue, the old man’s trick seemed an appropriate souvenir. Shadar pressed a palm to the sword at his hip. His hands were presented as bare to match Lord Macgowan’s preferred attire, so the crowd did not behold the added oddity as the oily material of his glove rippled and drank the prop sword into the void beyond. To their scavenging eyes, the sword seemed to simply disappear, drawing only a few more exclamations than the entire uncivilized incident so far.
Out of Character:
Wil was still unfamiliar with the layout of Radasanth. As he and the newly formed caravan of strange individuals following him winded their way out of the estate, he wondered if he could even find his way back to his boarding house. Geography was one thing. He had no doubt that he could find his way to Uiria once he left the city, not that he had any genuine intention of going there, not in the present company at least. Within the cities, things changed too much for his records to be of any use. What's more, he had presumed he would be returning hundreds of years later and so he had paid little mind to the layouts of settlements in his studies, figuring their transient nature would see them wiped away by the time he set foot on their paving stones.
He looked over his shoulder at the Makarios and spoke softly to him in Eudaemonian, wondering slightly whether his other companion would begin to find such discourse suspicious, or whether he was truly so interested in technology that he would let it pass.
"Do you know your way through this city? I'm going to take the storage buffer and make a run for it. I presume you can handle yourself with these types if I do," Wil said, attempting to keep his facial expression pleasant and his tone jovial, as if he were just making friendly banter.
"I don't know this district very well, but do what you must," he said. He was still surprisingly obedient to any Eudaemonian he met. Evidently the Makarios' programming was not easily shaken. Within a few minutes, he had gone from selling their technology to the highest bidder to handing it over for free and covering the escape of someone who amounted to a thief. "I can make a distraction. I doubt you would be much help against this man anyway, if what I'm sensing from him is true."
"He does seem unusual. I can't quite place it," Wil answered with a false laugh. He decided that in the conversational show he was putting on for the benefit of non-Eudaemonian listeners, the Makarios had just made a clever joke.
"It's for the best," the ex-vendor answered, his grave tone severely hampering the illusion of pleasant small talk. Resolute almost to the point of being morbid, it would seem the files on Makarios recruits and officers was not all propaganda after all.
By then, the group had reached the checkpoint where they originally entered the estate. The line was still long, as the event had barely gotten underway when Wil et al. had decided to absent themselves. The old wizard that was sealing swords looked over at them crassly.
"Done already? No matter what they're paying you, it's too much," he scoffed as he released the spell on Wilhelm's sword. He said nothing to the Makarios vendor and turned to the nobleman following them. Glancing at his hip, he raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you have a sword before?"
"Surely, I would not need a sword around here," he answered in the same aloof tone he had maintained through the whole endeavor.
"Indeed, your memory must not be what it used to be," Wil added as the group paced off into the main streets of Radasanth. He had no idea what they were talking about, but any excuse to mock the old coot was fine by him. Amusingly, he and the wizard were likely only a few years different in age, though no one would guess from looking at them. Such is the nature of environmental impacts, he thought, before his mind turned to escape routes.
Just outside the upscale district, down a wide thoroughfare, Wil spotted the telltale shingle identifying a tavern. He turned the group toward it and pressed them on with a quick call, "Right this way, fellows. We're off to Uiria, it would seem."
He truly hoped it seemed that way as he added one final note in Eudaemonian to the Makarios with a flippant smile, "Get ready."
Shadar, oddly silent with his gaze burning into Wilhelm’s back, was well aware of the situation. A minute earlier, a little dream demon had tipped him off.
~
Know what else I learned while I was giving Eudaemonians nightmares? Jackal blurted out as they neared the exit.
Shadar, a bit nauseas himself from the press of negative emotions, waited warily for an answer.
Their language.
The off-worlders’ conversation played again in his mind, this time dubbed in Tradespeak. He almost burst out laughing. Pleasant folk were useful to have around, but Shadar had no respect for them. A good double cross, though, that was a fine show of character. The bastard even kept up his act by helping Shadar dodge the old mage’s suspicions. That guy deserves a pat on the back, Shadar chuckled internally.
With blade in hand or not?
I haven’t decided yet.
~
“I’m ready,” he announced before either of the two men could break from their unassuming stride. Should they turn to face the Lord and Lady Macgowan, there would be nothing but air and footprints on the sun-baked cobblestones, and even the prints ended abruptly.
A bloodcurdling screech filled the air, loud enough to stun, as a golden silhouette of feathers darted from the blinding glare of the sun and stomped down in front of Wilhelm. Brigitte, bare as the day she was created, set her emerald eyes on him and scrapped her talons over the street. Every feather bristled, from talons to ample chest-exposing V to the tips of her wings in lieu of arms. Long, vibrant locks fell over her shoulders, framing her stern face in hostile crimson.
“I guess we’re both liars.” The tone held far more amusement than Brigitte portrayed at the moment, but it was too inhuman a voice to provide any comfort. Shallow and surreal, it was the memory of a voice that had died years ago when Shadar gave up the comforts and indulgences of mortality. He tapped one foot on the roof tiles that hung over the off-worlder. “I respect that.”
In an instant, one marked by not even a stirring of the rooftop soot, he was standing behind them. His gloved arms were crossed over his chest, where his sleeveless black coat lay open to reveal a shirt as white as polished bone. It was only a few shades lighter than his pale skin, and slightly duller than his short moon-silver hair.
“I can normally sense a lie, but your act was so good that I didn’t even try. Bravo!” He gave a scant few seconds of measured applause. Then, he reached one hand forward. The surface of the elbow-length glove churned like an oil slick, and iridescently blue veins of prevalida rose to the surface. Liquid steel rose also, bulging out behind his wrist and curling forward to form a long blade pointed at Wilhelm.
“I’m serious this time,” Shadar intoned gravely, “Give me a moment with your… collection.” He overtly eyed the case in Wilhelm's hand. “The alternative is that I take it permanently, and the nature of my existence prevents me from possessing an item when the current owner is alive and unwilling to share.”
You’re going kind of easy on them, Jackal grumbled, bloodlust drenching his words.
I’m just repaying him for the politeness. A karmic balance… in case things get messy.
Spoiler:
"What a shame," the Makarios psion said sullenly. In a flash of precognition, he saw what was to come, but there was no time for a warning or an action. Perhaps this is why the trainees are so resigned, blessed with glimpses just far enough ahead to forewarn futility.
Rattled by the ear-splitting noise, Wilhelm turned and looked for the man, only to find him perched above, clearly a position of dominance that was well deserved. The Eudaemonian's mind raced as the pair of inhuman beings taunted him. No sooner had he began to calculate a course of action than the circumstances changed. The man was behind him, blade to his neck.
He had traveled across realities only to be mugged on the street for a few scraps of technology. The Executor's warning be damned, he was not about to throw down his life for a pile of trinkets. He shifted the storage buffer from his right hand to his left and reached into his pocket slowly to produced the hilt.
"By all means then," he took the weapon and tossed it at the man's feet. "Have a look. I think you'll find I wasn't lying. It's probably weaker than the blade you have pointed at me. Just like most of the other things found at that carnival of stupidity, it's all show. If it is truly a force to be reckoned with, and I am from the place that made it, why would I carry a hunk of metal on my hip?"
He shook his head. To be sure, there were certain advantages to energy blades, but with power cores all but completely unavailable and maintenance a universe away, the tedium of keeping one up had lead him to choose a simple piece of sharpened metal over the technological contrivance laid at his assailant's feet.
"Enjoy," the Makarios said with a strange hint of smugness as his eyes glazed over. Within his labyrinthine mind, a seed of energy had been growing steadily until now it was full to bursting. A rush of invisible psionic force erupted from the man's form, crashing toward all present. Wilhelm was tossed like a rag doll several feet into the air and the energy blade's hilt clattered across the cobblestones toward a gutter.
The psionic shove was more disorienting than painful, but Wilhelm knew an opportunity when he saw one. Glancing toward a nearby building, there was no time to guess at what it was. Two stories high, that was good enough for the moment. Reaching out through the rift that had brought him to Althanas, his heritage called out to the Phase Engine, and it responded.
He appeared, collapsed on the floor, on the second story of the building. His head ached as if he hadn't slept for days and his stomach demanded to be empty. Pulling himself up to his knees, he voided its contents into a corner before crawling along the floor, away from any windows. He wouldn't be going anywhere anytime soon, he merely had to hope that, whatever those things were that were after him, they couldn't sense him here or better yet were satisfied with what they had gotten.
He gave a brief thought to the Makarios he had left alone with them, but his mind quickly returned to his own throbbing pain and waves of nausea.
Spoiler:
As the bladeless hilt skittered toward Shadar’s feet, a strangely impish grin slit his face, only to be slapped away by an invisible wave. Brigitte squawked in pain, but Shadar sprawled too violently through the air to find her. He put all his attention inward, building a wall of denial; denial against gravity, denial against momentum. Quant rules that he had yet to transcend. The offending force fought back, though, with a strength of will that lent it an alien flavor. It wasn’t any breed of wind magic, certainly.
Finally, Shadar found his bearings against the force and statically came to a halt in the air. Hovering inches above the street, positioned almost on his side, he snapped his head around to find the source of the otherworldly power. What he saw first, however, was the trinket Wilhelm had offered him bouncing toward a slit in the cobblestones. The faint odor of sewage wafted upward like death’s aura welcoming the hapless device into the abyss. As instinctively as a miser straining for a fallen coin, Shadar planted his toes on the rough stone and lunged into a low glide. He thrust his free arm forward, fingers splayed, and a pale flesh-colored spout erupted from his palm. It formed into a gruesome arm, disturbingly long with a total of three elbow joints. The hilt took its final bounce before the inevitable descent when the extended limb reached it. Ashen fingers fumbled over the smooth surface and flailed in panic, swatting it harshly against the wall of a building. Light sparked for a moment as if the impact had brought the blade to life, but it immediately winked out with a stuttered hum and landed against the stone wall.
Shadar winced, but Brigitte’s outraged shriek pulled his gaze away from the prize as she catapulted herself toward Wilhelm’s robed companion. Her outline seemed to blur to Shadar’s eyes, rendering her an earth-toned streak of vengeance. The vendor was swept backward so quickly that his legs flew as high as his shoulders had been. Then, he was planted hard, back against the street, and every ounce of air in his lungs escaped in a high, abrupt groan. It was safe to assume that he wouldn’t let fly another invisible blast until he re-mastered breathing.
Shadar allowed himself a second of paternal pride before he cast his eyes about, arm-mounted blade at the ready, to deal with the punkish off-worlder. “The hell-” he bite off. The street was deserted save for a few people in the distance who hastily changed direction. With the snake-like limb that still hung from his other palm, he snatched up the battered hilt and drained the whole grotesque mess back into the void. His glove burned, bruise red, for a moment as the weapon entered, but it quickly returned to the usual light-defying hue. Wilhelm had cast away his attachment to the device when he surrendered it.
“Where is he?” Shadar demanded, stalking to the vendor’s side. Brigitte still stood over him, feet clenching his shoulders, as she hissed furiously. When Shadar drew close, he realized that the blurring of her outline hadn’t been simply an effect of her speedy pounce. She still seemed frayed at the edges. With heat in his eyes and his blade against the man’s throat, Shadar added, “And what in the hell was that blast?”
The captive looked up as calmly as if he trusted in the immortal’s leniency, but there was resignation in his eyes. Whatever duty he had been tasked with, he seemed to have fulfilled, and his expression held nothing but pride that he had been able to serve. But, serve who? An acquaintance from some overdone sham auction?
“Tell me!” Shadar shouted, bloodless veins -mere remnants of a past existence- bulged in his forehead. The vendor, mouth shut as solidly as if he had already crossed to the other side, just stared upward with grim acceptance smoothing his brow.
What the hell is with this guy?
Kill him! Jackal demanded hungrily. Shadar’s blade didn’t move. Rare and amazing weapons will come ooooout, like a bloody piñata. Still, nothing but the awkward staring contest and Brigitte seething in the background. Okay, fine. Their world had some other tricks too, mind stuff. The freak’s probably loyal enough that he would stick a rusty needle through his eye if a superior told him to.
Then, do you know what the hell that was?
Pfft. I just play in people’s brains. I pick up their language enough to scare them in their own tongue. I look at their culture long enough to know what they’re afraid of. Do you expect me to study, on top of that, how their crap works? I‘ve got better things to do. Or I did, back when I was up there.
“Dammit,” Shadar growled. He pulled his blade away from the man’s throat and stepped behind Brigitte, “We’re going after Wilhelm.” He planted his empty hand against the small of her feathered back, and a sliver of his essence flowed between them, stabilizing her form. “So that’s what it was,” he mumbled as she calmed visibly and stepped off of her captive. The fraying of her essence wasn’t unlike what she suffered at the hands of a mentally hostile crowd, just more severe. She had been created from nothing by a demon who trafficked in illusions, but Shadar had never imagined that to be a glaring vulnerability until today. “The off-worlder’s got a few things to teach us,” he said with a resolution that made his earlier ventures seem like simple whims.
The two took to the air and glided over the rooftops, scanning the alleys for whatever hole their rat had scampered into. There wasn’t much time. The sun was falling from its zenith and the shadows that lived among the trash were returning in force.
Wilhelm lay prostrate on the floor of what he ultimately discovered to be a dusty attic. Either the floor below was occupied by a shop of some sort, or the residents were simply prolific hoarders. Oaken crates were stacked in every corner and hemp sacks of unknown material were piled up around them. Whatever was in them, one sackfull had already been spoiled as a side effect of Wil's dimensional jaunt.
As he finally came back to his senses, Wil was afraid even to think. Whatever was outside was surely looking for him, and it had more than the basic senses. Whether that included telepathy was still to be seen, but there was no reason to doubt it. Still, it was impossible to quiet his mind. He wondered whether the Makarios psion was alright. He pondered how long he should stay put, how long the two creatures outside would be hunting him, and how he was going to get out of this place when the time came.
The light outside the window was still bright and he reckoned it to be mid-afternoon. If he could go undisturbed here until nightfall, that would be the time to leave. Still, he was no skilled burglar. If the doorway out was locked, he would have no solution but to force it. Only a few days on this plane and he would already be a criminal. No, getting to Althanas had involved illegality enough, he had no desire to offend the authorities of this world too. If he could wait till night, he could wait just as well till the next day and then leave as he came, slipping through dimensions. As unpleasant as it was, he would rather vomit again than be clapped in irons and sent off to the dungeons of this pre-industrial civilization. There probably weren't even trials, he thought. Not that Eudaemonia had them either. What little crime there was with dealt with summary judgment by Directorate officials. Still, that was civilized enough. This place, though, who knows. He had already been disillusioned with it enough for one day.
Glancing down at the object he had clutched in his hands, he decided to bide his time by inventorying its contents. A small display hummed to life and illuminated the dark corner of the attic with a pale blue luminescence.
What?! Wil cried out silently in his own mind, barely restraining himself from making a noise. The display told the story:
Contents:
Total Mass: 3425 grams
Discrete Objects: 1
Detailed Inventory:
Transmission Relay x 1
All the rest of his inventory had been nothing at all? Wilhelm suddenly wished that perhaps the psion had not survived after all, the stoic bastard. He had almost gotten himself shanked by some who-knows-what for a transmitter with a hardcoded message from Director Bosche that he had seen dozens of times. He felt certain he could recite it almost verbatim.
Ah well, he thought, calming himself down for the long, tedious wait. The buffer alone is probably as useful as anything else that could have been inside. Except, of course, a scanner, what he had wanted all along…
At midnight, the half-moon lazily watched over Radasanth’s richest street. The Lieselotte Manor dominated at the end of the street, the king’s seat at their table. It slept fitfully. Torches still bobbed in the courtyard, lending just enough light to make the assembly of carriages look like a forest of mares and monoliths. The auction’s guards, now in their brown and green traveling attire, lugged the last few chests from the manor. It had been a good haul, as to be expected of the most prosperous city in Corone. What few trinkets remained were neatly stowed in three large chests. The rest overflowed with payment; coins of absurd denomination, signed and sealed records of debt, even family heirlooms that, with a little polish and dramatization, would fetch a fine price at the next event. No louder than the squeals of the gates grinding open, the carriages and their small army of guards slipped down the main street, passing every manor that they had just conned.
Customer satisfaction spoke to the contrary, though. Many had urged their servants home quickly with their treasures. Urns were pulled from mantles and family jewel were shifted to smaller boxes to make room for their new toys. Their significance seemed to radiate off every polished facet, brightening the homes with pride as refreshing and fleeting as a summer breeze. Those that didn’t spend their evening admiring the pieces were in their studies, calculating the accrued value years into the future. Only a few, who coincidentally had the most brilliant manors, returned with nothing but ideas. They knew the scheme for that it was, and they relished it as a learning experience. Already, they had plans for their own dungeon-robbed treasures… that would be quietly crafted by unnamed artisans.
Only the servants of the Macgowan residence seemed to be awake at this hour. They watched the caravan, heavy in gold, light in guilt, trundle out of town, and they whispered. Only one class of people is worse gossips than the rich; their servants. Every single one of them, as they tidied the ungathered mail, trimmed the garden to perfection, and polished every surface to mirrored brilliance, knew that the Lord and Lady’s return in the morning would be very trying. They had no way to soften the impact of the stories, those wild tales of uncouth behaviour while they were clearly visiting their son’s estate an entire day’s travel away, but at least the couple would returned to a polished and preened haven from which to weather the storm.
The caravan circled around the church at the opposite end of the street, a building nearly as tall as the Lieselotte Manor, and disappeared into the darker streets beyond. “Good riddance,” muttered Shadar from the wide, arched windows at the top of the bell tower. He and Brigitte, back against back, sat upon the workman’s platform running the interior of the tower, the massive bell inches above their heads and deathly silent.
As his glazed eyes wandered the faintly moonlit street, he flipped the bladeless Eudaemonian hilt from hand to hand. After their search for the off-worlder had reached a disappointing end, he had tried to salvage what little he could from the venture, but even the small device rebuked him. He had tried flicking it every which way and twisting every moveable piece he could find, of which there seemed to be more than when Wilhelm had handled it. Sighing, he swallowed the piece of off-world garbage into his palms.
Sonic! Or maybe Syonic… something, Jackal suddenly belted out so powerfully that Shadar expected the bell to ring.
What? he demanded bitterly as he lay his head back against the ruby waterfall of Brigitte’s hair and rested on her shoulder. She did the same, pressing her ear to his own.
That invisible whatever that the mind puppet slapped you with. It was called something like that.
Shadar scowled. Somehow, the demon’s pointless ramblings annoyed him more than the outright hostility. Jackal probably knew that, though, as he chuckled a little in the background. Any information he could give would be meaningless, anyway. Shadar had no way to track Wilhelm, if the bastard was even still on Althanas, and no leads to investigate the bizarre magic. It was simply one of an uncountable number of dangers, all the more frightening now after being proven as Brigitte’s antithesis.
“Do you think immortals fear death more than mortals?” he asked aloud, not expecting an answer, but not wanting to shield her from the hard truth either.
Brigitte tilted her head in thought, stared at the rafters a moment, then answered in a tone as relaxed as could be, “I was never mortal. I don’t know.” Either she didn’t realized the gravity of the statement, or she truly felt no fear at its prospect. Whether it was a sign of childishness or not, Shadar couldn’t tell.
“I suppose,” he mumbled, “I was… and I don’t remember being as worried about it. Maybe, when you have an expiration date, you don’t see the need in delaying the inevitable.” Brigitte nodded against his shoulder, but she had no response to offer. “Ready to go?” Shadar finally asked when the silence and the silver-edged shadows of moonlit stone began to grate on him.
“Pull the rope,” Jackal interjected in an audible illusion.
Shadar jerked his head up. “What do you-”
“Yeah, pull it,” Brigitte chirped, turning and smiling broadly on this oh-so-rare occasion that she agreed with her creator.
Shadar glanced around for a moment before he realized their game, then a mischievous smile washed away his introspective scowl. “Heh, okay.”
All down the street, noble and servant alike awoke to a horrendous clang that reverberated through the walls and straight down to the foundations. It was a sound they had never heard from the church before, as if the bell had been hoisted to its peak and let fly with wild abandon. The sound stretched on, the metal protesting loudly, and not a single ear heard the ageless laughter as two shadows darted away into the half-lit night.
Out of Character:
-One bound sword and sheath. The magic will fade if it is removed from the void for a short length of time.
-One broken energy sword. An internal connection was jarred loose, given the impact and the age of the device. The focusing matrix is intact, though, and the power core has enough juice to see some small amount of use down the road.
Neither item will be usable in any way until researched in a later thread.
Weakness gained/discovered:
-Shadar cannot resist Psionic forces as easily as he could physical forces.
-Brigitte is actually damaged by Psionic force, and will be very susceptible to Psionic attacks designed to do damage.
Out of Character:
- Storage Buffer: A briefcase-sized piece of Eudaemonian technology that relies on phased space to compress objects. It can hold up to 5 cubic meters of non-living matter, which can be inserted into it by typing a command into the interface screen and placing the object against the exterior of the buffer. It can be locked by a passcode and breaking it open would reveal nothing but broken components. It already contains the transmitter which is of no monetary value.
This battle hooked me right away. The premise was unique, the setting was sound and you both began the story at an incredible pace. Then it seemed that you two fell into disfavor over something. Maybe it was powergaming. Maybe you were running out of time. Either way, the ending was rushed and confusing. If you would have seen things through until the end and written together like you did in the beginning this might have been Judge's Choice material. Read on for individual comments.
Shadar
Continuity- 6
Setting- 6
Pacing- 6 (See comment above)
Dialogue- 4 (Jackal's omni-presence hurt you here. You essentially powergamed through dialogue by allowing your character to have a far greater knowledge of Eudaemonian culture than he should have. This is easy to avoid by adding other means of discovery into the story, such as character observation and interaction, rather than past NPC interactions that the reader is forced to believe are true)
Action- 4 (See comment above)
Persona- 7 (Shadar has certainly grown as a character and his depth is apparent in your writing. Jackal seems to have evolved as well, but he seems far less interesting as a character than he did before. Maybe it's because Shadar has grown past bending to his will)
Technique- 6 (You have some long run on sentences. When you are reviewing your posts look at the words you use between commas and decide whether the same message can be conveyed without them. If it can, drop those words)
Mechanics- 7
Clarity- 6 (Sometimes your writing was hard to follow)
Wild Card- 6
Total 58/100
Wilhelm
Continuity- 6 (An excellent start, but somewhat unrealistic plot development hurt you here. See persona below)
Setting- 7(Excellent description of the setting. You chose a unique place to build your character and used it well. Bravo)
Pacing- 6 (See comment above)
Dialogue- 5
Action- 4 (Unless I missed something in your profile and subsequent writings, your psion blast was not approved. To use a new ability in battle it has to be properly developed. If you desire to keep it, please post a mid-level profile update and let the RoG moderator decide whether he can keep it or not)
Persona- 6 (The setting and the path of the thread took was clearly meant to advance your character's story, but I felt that many of the factors leading to the development, like the vendor serving under Bosche, were a bit too convenient. It might have been more believable if you hadn't cast him aside at the end and made him a greater part in your story)
Technique- 7 (Your writing is excellent)
Mechanics- 8
Clarity- 6
Wildcard- 6
Total- 61/100
Wilhelm advances to Round Two.
Rewards: Spoils approved. Shadar also receives 200 GP consolation gift.
Wilhelm gains 2200 exp and 200 gold! He is now level 1!
Shadar gains 660 exp and 150 gold!
This has been added! Congrats.