Heavy lies the Crown [Open]

[Shinsou Vaan Osiris]

As he sat in silence and stared at the wall of the inner chambers of the Citadel, the sound of an iron door creaking on its hinges suddenly pulled Shinsou Vaan Osiris back from the edge of infinity. His golden eyes followed the short, bald and orange robed attendant as he casually skirted past the Telgradian, placing a silver tray with some wine and bread down on the table in front of him. The monk seemed to be being careful to avert his gaze from Shinsou, although he couldn’t figure out why.

“Thanks.”

No reply. The monk looked past him, as if he weren’t even there, and left.

The Telgradian sighed. Even though he was in the Citadel, the whole atmosphere made it feel like he’d been remanded in some shithole prison. There were no windows in the inner chambers, with the only light coming from four oil slicked torches hanging on the walls. Even then, the light was distributed so thinly that it barely ate into the vast swathes of shadows. The furniture comprised a chair and a table, with no other amenities whatsoever.

No one expected the temporary quarters to be luxurious, but this was so far disconnected from reality that it was borderline offensive. He leaned over the tray, taking a bite from the bread roll between his fingertips. At least that was decent; It was surprisingly soft and buttery, and probably the first good thing about this particular visit.

Yes, this visit. Really, a visit that he never thought he’d make again anytime soon.

Shinsou was supposed to have sworn off battling in the Citadel a long time ago, after coming up against Felicity Rhyolite in what turned out to be less of a test of skill and more of an unrefined melee. The whole affair had surprised him. It had been exciting. Challenging, even. But after the fight had ended and the wounds had healed, he felt empty again.

It wasn’t so much that the Neanderthal had drained his will to fight these battles (quite the opposite, in fact), but it made him realise that the number of people who could push him even close to the ceiling of what he was capable of had dwindled. His dear friend, Storm Veritas, was frighteningly powerful but held little interest for fighting him (and in any case was busy attending to his deep well of personal needs and urges). There were rumours that Joshua Cronen had departed for foreign lands, and hadn’t been seen for a while now. John Cromwell was gods-knows-where. Felicity, he’d just fought. Philomel? Well, he just didn’t want to go there.

But, once again, he found himself once more at the world’s greatest arena, the subject of an anonymous invitation for another “deathmatch”. He was prepared for the whole matter to be underwhelming, but, like a worthless junkie carelessly hooked again after a year of cold turkey, he couldn’t let go of the habit. Shinsou wore attire that replaced his horribly pedestrian tunic, with his traditional white greatcoat, black shirt and pants, and boots. His weapon, Enpera, stood apart from the rest of him from its sheath at his side.

As for his host, Shinsou had tried to work out who called him here, and deduced it wasn’t a political or military opponent (he supposed that anyone who wanted him dead wouldn’t summon him to a place with instant resurrection).

So, who?

His question went unanswered, for now. It would become clear when the bright white light of the Citadel’s portal faded, and his time in the chamber of gladiatorial honour began.