Old Dogs, Same Tricks

((CLOSED TO LYE))

Undoubtedly news of Max Dirks' revival, and his Citadel invitations would be spreading across Corone by now. Old grizzled Dirks would avoid such attention. Despite his earlier attempts at redemption, there were still dozens of outstanding bounties on his head from his earlier exploits. 21 year old Dirks, fully clad in his pristine white jumpsuit, and black trench coat, relished in the attention. The magic of the Citadel, and the oath sworn by the monks to revive all wounded combatants would keep small time bounty hunters at bay. Why waste precious resources simply to be denied the kill? No, it was the best of the bounty hunters that Dirks sought. Those whose powers exceeded those of the monks and could put the criminal into a grave within their walls.

There was only one assassin powerful enough to do that: Lye Ulroke. Lye and Dirks were old acquaintances, but Dirks had no doubt that the sheer price on his head would bring the old loon out of retirement. This battle was Dirks' greatest risk, which is why picked a setting best suited to his survival. The arena was a full scale recreation of the Radasanth market. It would be no different than if the two had met just outside the Citadel's walls, just with less collateral.

The Crimson Hand lay in ash and embers. The one who wrought its downfall found himself in the heart of Althanas, a place most would deem him mad to show himself in public. The Lye of the past looked so very different than the man now. Worse for wear suited his concealment in the public. Besides, who would recognize him with all that long, white hair cut short? Perhaps the sly renegade with a ridiculously large bounty on his head might recall the youthful face under the accumulated years. Lye bowed slightly to the Ai'Brone monk whom ushered him through the chamber entrance mentioned by his sources.

A flash of light and the assassin emerged back outdoors. Sun high in the sky and the smell of Radasanthian fare wafted from the shops and inns down the alley. He was impressed with the tenacity and skill the old monks showed in their work. One thing set apart real from synthetic: a stark lack of bodies which usually shambled from place to place in search of purpose or meaning in their miserable lives. Instead, just one silhouette marred the blue horizon, and Lye raised his head so the light could dawn on a smile.

"I'm surprised you still don't run this place," Lye joked. His arms gestured outward to the visage of Radasandth and what lied outside its illusion.