Storm's End

((CLOSED TO STORM VERITAS))

21 year old Max Dirks sat on the edge of a rotating bed at a brothel, or at least at the monks' best attempt to recreate one. The criminal was clad in a pair of heart boxers, as was appropriate for the establishment. Magically recreated women would periodically walk into the room, but Dirks quickly dismissed them. His target was a man formerly of many vices, soured by responsibility in the wake of the apocalypse and his adventures with Shinsou van Osiris. The criminal was unsure if Storm would show. His message, sent VIA courier to the Brotherhood, merely state, "Want to fight, bitch? - Max Dirks." It wasn't the most respectful invitation, but Storm Veritas was apparently a man of honor these days. The message probably would be passed through a network of spies to verify its legitimacy. With so many eyes viewing the message, could the old castigar turn down the invitation? Dirks certainly hoped not.

Storm Veritas was central to his plan. Perhaps more central than any other single player, and to test his theory, Dirks had the monks set up an elaborate arena. Every bit of this area was laced with power generators. Dirks anticipated the electric sensitive, and aptly named, Storm, would pick up on this right away. The result, of course, would be an amplification of Storm's power beyond anything he'd experienced.

The note which arrived to the wizard had the subtlety of prison rape, but then pride goeth before the fall. Storm remembered the note with a grin as the Citadel monks escorted him through the ornate, echoing etched stone triage rooms en route to the main battle ampitheatre. Storm hands an empty glass to the crimson robed monk as he walks dutifuly aside, their foofalls creating a drumbeat. A little mead would take the edge off; too much would thin his blood and slow him. Wiping his lip of honey flavored residue, he instinctively checks the catches on his cufflinks as the reality of this situation continually reverberated about his head. Has to be a trap; unless this guy is a masochist.

Veritas rolls his head around his shoulders as a stretch, feeling the satisfying pops and cracks festoon about his spinal column. The door opens for him, and he peers about carefully before stepping through, into a surprisingly dark room, wide and low, with beds, larders of wine, and a half dozen women of varying attractiveness wearing thin and translucent silk. The humming of iron boxed about the corners of the room could be generators used to power the dimmers, a ridiculous oversight given Storm's electromagnetic proclivities. In the center, a young man spins slowly on a creaking circular bed, wearing little more than a pair of foolish boxers. Luckily for (perhaps) both of them, a reek of sex in the room indicated the bulk of his festivities had already transpired, allowing a more comfortable fit for the shorts. Perhaps these women were part of the gambit; or perhaps Storm had been invited to an orgy.

Storm simply smiled a bright, white and toothy politician's greeting, quickly removing the pinstriped gray coat and tossing it unceremoniously to a vacant bed while removing his gaze from a few lovely distractions and catching the young man's eye. "Good morning! I presume that you're the famously articulate Max Dirks?"