(Open) Let's Flex

[Shinsou Vaan Osiris]

To be back in the Silver Cup meant only one thing to Shinsou Vaan Osiris; he'd finally returned home. Not a physical home, of course, for he owned a very handsomely valued apartment a couple of streets away, but instead the home of his ideals and ambitions.

This was the place where he and Storm Veritas had originally agreed to intertwine their destinies; the spot on which the Brotherhood, in its current format, had been planned and conceived.

The upmarket Radasanthian tavern took a certain type of patron. The politically powerful, the wealthy and the influential were the usual clientele. A lot of money exchanged hands in here, usually with Soap, the landlord, being directly involved. You could tell, too. Thick, shag carpets from Irrakram in Fallien covered the lounge. Brass lanterns from Alerar hung in the vaults. Ornaments from Raiaera's ancient past were placed neatly in rows on floating shelves. There was chirping of clean leather shoes on fresh planks cut from the best trees in Underwood. It all created an atmosphere of importance and snobbery around the place to attract bigger names and even bigger purses, and yet most ironically the tavern was the dirtiest capital of Radasanth's black market, criminal underworld and assassin's guild.

The lone Telgradian was the first through the door this morning. As a short ginger man stretched across the counter, he placed a tumbler in front of him and perched on a large stool.

"A little bird tells me you came back to Whitevale. Am I hearing correctly?"

“Oh? Who told you that?” Shinsou stood by the lip of the bar top, clutching the glass between finger and thumb. The question insinuated that by Shinsou returning to the town of the Brotherhood's HQ, he was once again part of the hierarchy. Calmly, the barman's hands slid a piece of paper across the table. His eyes stayed straight, never averting from the spellsword for a second.

“No-one in particular. If it's true, though, you should check this guy out. Soap thinks he'd be a good fit for you.”

The charming smile of the barman broke Shinsou's gaze, and as the Telgradian flashed the note open he screwed up his eyes.

"Yeah, well, if it is true you'll know soon enough. So, this guy. Hayate Amatsukami? Never heard of him, and what exactly does Soap mean by "a good fit"? Unless the guy is a jacket or looking for love in the wrong places, I don't see how he "fits"."

As Shinsou crossed his arms across the bartop, he peered into the murky whisky as if divining tea leaves. If Soap was dishing him names, it could only mean that there was something in it for him. It begged the questions what and why. It was then that the landlord himself, dressed as if he were the Radasanthian representive of the House of Lords, strolled in from the back and clapped his Telgradian associate on the forearm.

"Go to the Citadel, my friend, and find out for yourself. This name has been handed down by a very powerful connection who reckons the boy has potential." Soap picked up a fresh bar towel from under the counter and began polishing glassware, whilst Shinsou raised a sceptical eyebrow.

"What's in it for you?" Came the inevitable question from the Telgradian's lips.

"The well being of my benefactors, the Brotherhood. You guys keep me in business, and I like to throw you a bone every now and then to keep that business coming in. If he's any good, you'll try to recruit him and, of course, pay me a finder's fee. If you kill him, it's training. Win-win, right?"

The Citadel may have been the gathering place for Althanas's pool of gifted fighters and wannabe heroes, but there was no use plucking a name at random if you wanted to scout for talent or train in a specific way. That's why the Brotherhood kept Soap around - the man called to the next gifted generation of warriors and passed on their details to interested parties. Due to the beautifully crafted contract they had, the Brotherhood always had first refusal on talent.

"Fine. I'll assess him, and see what happens. You'll have your money later."

Whether or not this would qualify as recruitment or training was somewhat irrelevant to the Telgradian. Recently, Shinsou had been a regular at the Citadel, and much like his most recent opponent and reunited partner Storm Veritas, there was no question of his own power. That was beyond debate. But there was a lack of sharpness and an insatiable appetite for improvement that kept dragging him back to the arena.

So, four hours later, the grandest stage in the world once again hosted the spellsword.

Stepping gently from the hot membrane of the portal, Shinsou Vaan Osiris felt his feet flatten against a stone floor. The first thing he noticed was an infinite void, surrounding the disc shaped stone platform he stood on, that seemes to stretch on forever. It reminded him instantly of Telgradia's "Kokushi" prison and it's maddening seventh floor; nothing but emptiness and cold for all eternity in all directions. The disc platform itself seemed suspended in the air and was devoid of features; a classic gladatorial arena.

Turning sharply, the golden eyes of the spellsword tightened into a glare as he stared at the form of a person at the other side of the disc opposite. The fact he had to use his eyes to see the man told Shinsou a lot already - namely that either the man could hide his power, or he simply didn't have enough of it to sense.

That could be a problem. If I can't sense him, he could still catch me off guard if he hits a blind spot. Be vigilant and figure out early what his skillset is.

"The name is Shinsou Vaan Osiris," The Telgradian shouted across the distance by way of introduction, "and if I have my information right, your name is Hayate Amatsukami. Am I correct? If so, I'm here to answer your challenge. Don't let me down, kid."