((Closed to Ira))

Class structure on Althanas was defined not by who held the regal names, but more simply by who was foolish enough to overpay for a pricey suit.

Storm was one of those people. Diplomats, aristocrats, the upper echelon of earners upon the land were well versed in their own inner circles, but faking your way in was easy enough. The poor in Radasanth were just that – dirt poor – and lacked the ambition nor the wherewithal to circumvent the system and lay claim to the golden cup.

Fools, ripe for the picking.

He primely picked a nice thick shrimp from a garish silver platter being ushered around by some awful old stuffed shirt with an accent. Smiling, he looked around the place – beautiful and ornate, with cherry wood floors and brilliant crystal chandeliers. Soft piano music lifted echoed in the background, with the pompous bumbling chatter in small circles all about. The intro was always awkward, so he skipped it altogether.

“And then Abigail and I will be chartering a ship sailing past Nyd in a month… Lovely place, if you stay away from the mainland.” Braggard declarations of a well kempt white-head, very proud of his ability to burn through money. “And you, Stephen, anything scribbled in your planner?”

An awkward, unnecessary and unexpected laugh. Apparently this was what passed for amusing. Stepping forward, a round-bellied blowhard in a tuxedo talked between bites of some cheese-looking morsel, his left hand filled with a near-empty chardonnay.

“Well, I’m looking for something a little tamer. Last year we got stuck going to that awful place on Fallien, the festival, and it was total madness! Complete hedonism! Undressed women, excessive drinking, drug abuse and prolific fornication.”

Hey now!

His ears perked, the tone of conversation taking a nice turn. While he was interested in his own political advancement, pulling off a ruse or two, he was also very sincerely intrigued by the prospect of bared breasts and plentiful beer. He wasn’t that old, or even that inhuman. Waiting patiently while sipping gently at the soft chardonnay of his own, he would grab Stephen around the shoulders, greet him by name, and overwhelm the diplomat with the guilt of forgetting what must have felt like a familiar face.

“Stephen, about that festival…”

~*~
Six weeks later, aboard the “Delores”, three hundred yards from the coast of Fallien.

The trip hadn’t been bad. A few coins under the table had allowed Storm to board with a few friends of that Stephen fellow, a man who actually had been tolerable in spite of his exorbitant wealth. The tall, well dressed Veritas was cordial and polite, but peacefully distant, and kept mostly to himself over what could only be described as a routine sail. Everything had fallen together quite simply, and he waved and smiled again once more before disembarking. He wouldn’t have a ride home from the shores, but in his experience a few gold coins could lubricate the rudder of even the most steadfast ship.

It would be hot today, the sun browbeating him as he landed in sand. Climate control was not his best fit avenue. This place was hot – very hot – and his armpits were quickly feeling the uncomfortable tack of perspiration. Where the hell was he? The Stephen chap had informed him the Festival was “can’t miss”, but something of this place reeked of disaster.

Aw, whore. And the good-f*cking-ship-lollipop just took off for the high seas again. Why do you do this to yourself?

There was a stone structure ahead. It would serve as some shelter. Perhaps someone there would get him a bite to eat for a few coins, and directions to this party. He needed badly to urinate, and then begin filling his system with the devil’s nectar. This wasn’t supposed to be so difficult.