Tidecleft: Edge of the Storm (IC)

[lt_murgen]

[B][COLOR="#000080"
"As for who will survive? Well, Hoss for sure, but it depends how much they want to tug on heartstrings for the others. Either way, a lot of people are going to be disappointed tonight."

"Hoss Bravo. I do recall that name. Quite a brute. In the best way, of course. All strength and little guile or technique. How much that will avail him against a hunting cat, though." He shook his head sadly.
"Goodman Gulch, wasn't he the man involved in the unfortunate situation with the young Lady Tillsdale? Such a terrible thing, and yet people choose to wager upon the misfortune." He said neutrally.


Later, First tier Atrium:
Artur approached the guards to the atrium smiling “Yeoman Beattie, fair greetings to you.”
"Master Nicolescu." The royal guard replied with slight bow.
"How is your goodwife Parisa?"
“Doing well, Master. Still employed in the household of Baroness Klasson. Thank you for making the introduction.”
“Unnecesary, but welcome. You wife is an exceptional milliner. The Baroness rejoices in her creations. Should she accompany her husband today, I am certain you will see for yourself. Be well, yeoman.” Artur said as he stepped inside.
The other guard glanced at Beattie. “He is a good man to get to know, Cristos. Almost tolerable, for a court-sparrow."

[Aedilred]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves, First Tier Atrium

"I missed you at the funeral." It wasn't quite a question or an accusation, but it wasn't entirely not those things either. She looked around suddenly as though remembering where she was.

"Yes, I must apologise for my absence; I did not hear until after it had been conducted. I hope you know you can count on my help should you need it, all the same."

"Sunyer, this is my good friend Miss Everly Sinclair." She turned to the duke,

"Duke Briarcroft, this is this is my cousin Sunyer, the Baron Berenguel."

Sunyer turned and bowed similarly to Everly. "Charmed, Miss Sinclair. I hope you find the hospitality to your liking, though the entertainment may be something of an acquired taste."

"Baron?" It had been Count. Was Senna mistaken? Briarcroft made a token attempt to hide his surprise. "You're ... Ramon's son?"

He looked vaguely stunned, clearly wracking his brain to keep the dates straight. "No, his grandson, surely? I'm very sorry; the book of peerage I studied abroad was many decades out of date. I'm afraid I've been so busy with my family's affairs and the estate that I've barely had a chance to visit the library!"

Without further facial contortions, the duke compartmentalized Ramon's death like he'd done so many times before. Everett hadn't mentioned it. They'd all been about the same age, Ramon a few years younger. They hadn't quite gotten on. Ramon thought too much of his birthright and Alistair too little of his own. He saw it now, the resemblance on Sunyer's face. Did women really go for beards? Was that what passed for fashionable these days?

"Cousins?" he asked after what felt to him like an uncomfortable silence. His mind had only drifted a second. "You must educate me. How are you related to this charming young woman?"

"Ramon's grandson, yes. My grandfather died five years ago, though some of my relatives have seen fit to contest my inheritance, so most of the estate remains within the grasp of the Chancery. I have heard you are in a not entirely dissimilar position, though they have managed to fritter most of yours away?"

"Senna is my cousin on our mothers' side, and consequently my favourite, since she is just about the only one not trying to beggar me."

[Nefarion Xid]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves, First Tier Atrium

"Bloodsuckers!" hissed Alden, only slightly louder than he'd intended. "Those parasites had the audacity to levy three generations of inheritance taxes on the castle! My own steward is too stupid to realize that the summer manor is not his merely because his father grew up there. The oak forest was declared a "public good". And now I'm being told that I can't toll grain shipments that travel on the highway my family built. As if the city would starve for barley prices to rise two percent."

His anger had leveled off at a steady blitheness when he'd finished ranting. He event smiled through the last bit, though he spoke through his teeth.

"Of course, none of this really compares to throwing me in prison for giving my name to a clerk. Impersonating a noble is a serious crime. I could have been the main event at the Graves today, martyred for attempting to access my own accounts. Alden: Patron Saint of Clerical Work!"

[DoomHat]

"If you don't mind my asking, how did the two of you meet?" Andon asked.

"Oh, Hoss? He's a dear. He let me dress him up last time he was here." Lucre answered.

Hoss had only just finished looping the girdle suspending his fabulous new fancy pants, and so heard the exchange. Up to that point he'd been muttering under his breath, explaining the process of putting on cloths to himself.

"Mr Pheonix is a good guy." said Hoss, half shouting.

Hoss hated lying, and was largely incapable of it, but his older siblings had systematically beaten into him the 'right' way to talk about family business. Hoss was vaguely aware the Bravo family had done some kind of 'Kindly' service for Lucre, but it wasn't his place to know the details.

It was common culture among the Kindly Ones of the waterfront to refer to respectable people involved with criminal enterprises as "a good guy". But the statement would have little meaning to those unfamiliar with the thieves' cant. As such, Lucre Phoenix suddenly had Bundy Roberts' full attention.

Bundy stood up, moved to the bars of his cage, and stared into Lucre with his icy blue eyes, surprised and inquisitive, but intense.

[Mary_Sue]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves, First Tier Atrium

"Senna is my cousin on our mothers' side, and consequently my favourite, since she is just about the only one not trying to beggar me."

Senna looked slightly surprised by this news.

"Your favourite? Georgio will be ever so disappointed to hear that." A small smirk twitched at the corner of her lips for a moment.

"Is he coming, do you know? I imagine he might be occupied with the renovations." Last Senna had heard, their cousin had grand plans for her parents old estate on Lilac Lane.

"Bloodsuckers!" hissed Alden, only slightly louder than he'd intended. "Those parasites had the audacity to levy three generations of inheritance taxes on the castle! My own steward is too stupid to realize that the summer manor is not his merely because his father grew up there. The oak forest was declared a "public good". And now I'm being told that I can't toll grain shipments that travel on the highway my family built. As if the city would starve for barley prices to rise two percent."

His anger had leveled off at a steady blitheness when he'd finished ranting. He event smiled through the last bit, though he spoke through his teeth.

"Of course, none of this really compares to throwing me in prison for giving my name to a clerk. Impersonating a noble is a serious crime. I could have been the main event at the Graves today, martyred for attempting to access my own accounts. Alden: Patron Saint of Clerical Work!"

"Goodness forbid!" Senna seemed genuinely unnerved by the thought of the charming aristocrat being forced to fight tigers for sport like a common criminal.

[PepperP.]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves, First Tier Atrium

"Sunyer, this is my good friend Miss Everly Sinclair." She turned to the duke,

"Duke Briarcroft, this is this is my cousin Sunyer, the Baron Berenguel."

Sunyer turned and bowed similarly to Everly. "Charmed, Miss Sinclair. I hope you find the hospitality to your liking, though the entertainment may be something of an acquired taste."

"A pleasure, Baron Berenguel. I find good company can often make up for an otherwise lacking event, though this one at least promises some measure of excitement. Base though it may be, those who crave it must find it where we can." Her smile was vague as she turned her attention back to the duke and his accession woes. If she was upset by his outburst, it didn't show on her face.

"Of course, none of this really compares to throwing me in prison for giving my name to a clerk. Impersonating a noble is a serious crime. I could have been the main event at the Graves today, martyred for attempting to access my own accounts. Alden: Patron Saint of Clerical Work!"

"Patron Saint of Forbearance is more like it. That level of incompetency is a travesty." Everly took a sip of wine.

"Still, criminals are being sent to the Graves more and more commonly these days. I would not expect that zealousness to change anytime soon." King Frederick's enjoyment of the matches would see to that.

[lt_murgen]

A bit later, fist tier atrium

With a polite clearing of his throat, Artur made his presence known.
“Duke Briarcroft, your Grace.” He bowed formally.
“Baron Berenguel, my Lord.” A slightly less deep bow.
Miss Clark, Miss Sinclair,” He acknowledged each in turn, taking their offered hand in his, and pressing his lips to the back of his own, gloved, hand.
“Harland, always a pleasure.” He spoke, finally, to Regor.

[woolli264]

Late Sunday Morning: Still outside the Salt graves

Duggin looked Little bear in the eye and gave a smug smirk that later morphed into a shrug as his answer progressed "I'm Duggin, hunter of treasure, but today I'm peddler of pastries. That amulet of yours is quite unique where'd ya find it?"

Little Bear responded carefully, "I did not find my totem in a place, as a treasure hunter would be accustomed to, but in a state of mind. I was deep in a cave, deep in the woods and, most importantly, deep in meditation far north of here. Is there a reason you ask?" He had been exiled but he was still not eager to divulge to much of the tribes secrets.

After Little Bears response Duggin's excavated a note from the cart to give the ironically named Little Bear. "I find, that owners of supernatural objects tend to encounter them fairly often, so if ya find something unknown I'll happy to assist."

Little Bear accepted the note and put it in his pocket. "Ah. In that case I will be sure to contact you if I need your help." He then nodded to the vendor and went on his way to the arena, he had two extra pastries and a specific duo in mind for him to share with.

[Minescratcher]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves, First Tier Atrium

Regor took a moment to breathe. It wouldn't do to respond to the Baron's baiting, right now at least.

"Still, criminals are being sent to the Graves more and more commonly these days. I would not expect that zealousness to change anytime soon."

"Nor would anyone else. There even seem to be more criminals appealing for a match these days." He sipped slowly at his wine, composing himself the rest of the way.

“Harland, always a pleasure.”

"Ah, Master Nicolescu. It is good to see you indeed."

[Tentreto]

"Hoss Bravo. I do recall that name. Quite a brute. In the best way, of course. All strength and little guile or technique. How much that will avail him against a hunting cat, though."

"It depends who gets the first blow I suppose," Buce suggested, "though what would you do as an apex predator if a soft skinned clawless biped suddenly rushed you?"
"Goodman Gulch, wasn't he the man involved in the unfortunate situation with the young Lady Tillsdale? Such a terrible thing, and yet people choose to wager upon the misfortune." He said neutrally.


Buce let out an audible sigh. "People will bet on anything in this city, if you give them a story and good odds. And Gulch is both a pariah and a saint." Buce shook is head, knocking his tray a little, the various spices sliding slightly. "Poor man is probably dead no matter what. If he doesn't die today, some assassin will get him, and then in a week, some new idiot will be in and be the new betting target."
Buce quickly shook himself from his slight rant. "Forgive me, as I say, the matter is hard to put to words, its more than just Wesley Gulch. I don't suppose you are betting?"

[lt_murgen]

"Forgive me, as I say, the matter is hard to put to words, its more than just Wesley Gulch. I don't suppose you are betting?"
[/COLOR]

Earlier, outside the atrium

I will bet on the mercenary companies, most certainly. Honest and competent people engaged in straightforward combat. The Greythorn Company is reliable and fight cohesively. I think they will take the day." He paused, "One on one fighting, two people throwing their skill and power against the other. Those are the fights I love. Even engaged in a few, in my youth." He shook his head, frowning. "This spectacle is not for me. King Fredrick clearly knows what is best for his people. Probably my age, I suppose, is my deficiency.".

"And you, my good man? Will you be wagering this day?"

[hi-mi-tsu]

Sunday Morning
Outside the Salt Graves

"I'm stuck with pastries for now, but I know Westley. While we've drifted apart since our naval days, I'll still root for him. Realistically though he'll probably die, the upper crust is a lot of things but half-baked isn't one of them. Most we can hope is that it'll be more tragedy than farce."

Tapping his head, attempting to remember anything....really scraping the bottom of the mental barrel top say "I bet mercenaries will have an exciting bout though."

"I certainly hope so - otherwise, what are we paying to watch?" Nespira grinned again, patting Duggin on the shoulder. "If you do get a chance to come inside, feel free to find me. I've got some mid-tier seats thanks to my company. I'm not hard to spot, y'know, on account of being blue and having horns!"

Another pat, and Nespira headed into the Graves with a wave. He wasn't the most interesting character in the world (certainly not like that hairy man, who she hadn't gotten much chance to speak with), but the outcasts always had to stick together, right? In a city like this one, the more friends you had, the better off you were.

Inside the Salt Graves

Being one of the more prosperous companies in the city had its perks; the Wolves always had three seats reserved in the mid-tier section. While they weren't quite as fancy as the boxes the nobility had, they were vastly more comfortable than the bare, worn stone the general public had to deal with. Plus, they gave a pretty good view of the field. She was alone - none of her fellows had elected to come, which was fine with her. Sometimes, it was nice to do things on your own.

She wouldn't mind meeting more new people, though. More friends meant more information meant better chances at better jobs. Slowly eating her pastry, she waited for the excitement to start.

[Rolepgeek]

Sunday Morning
Outside of the Holding Cells, Salt Graves

Lucre looked back to see Violet on his knees with the measuring tape in hand, and sighed. "What are you doing? We aren't fitting him for a codpiece, you don't need to measure that." Lucre chased the man away, "Apologies. Now, do you have any preference for how much skin you'd like to be showing? As I understand it you aren't allowed armor."

Andon shrugged after a moment. "Probably the less, the better," he said, pulling off his shirt. Underneath, his skin was marked by swirling lines of raised flesh, scars darkened by ink, sprawling across his arms and torso. There was a pattern there, though it only just skirted recognition. "I'm guessing these would ruin the-"

Victor, having grown bold again in the discussion of such supposedly non-lethal matters as fashion, took this moment to shriek. "Just make him look good! Naked if that's better!" The man looked at Andon, somewhere between a glare and a plea, as he continued. "As my champion, you represent me! And that means looking the part!"

Andon stared the man down for a few seconds, suddenly less confident about his choice. He didn't really mind what he wore; he hadn't been phased (much) by Violet, and you didn't get to have modesty when you fought, so he doubted Lucre would produce something that would be unwearable. But this man..."Up to you, sir. You're the King of fashion. I think I can trust your judgment." Andon smiled at the Guildmaster, and his entire face changed, just for that second.

"Mr Pheonix is a good guy." said Hoss, half shouting.

Andon nearly jumped at the sudden change in Hoss's activity level. That was...odd. But it was probably just the general concentration of...eccentricity. He cast a curious glance at the Guildmaster, but otherwise held his tongue.

[Othniel]

Sunday Morning,
Outside The Gilded Oar

Daft woman, Magnus thought. He shrugged and turned away as well, his feet leading him down the street toward the Salt Graves arena, hopefully in time to find a decent seat.

The Salt Graves

The waterfront area was always bustling, and that morning was no different. The streets were busier the closer Magnus came to the docks, though most of the traffic seemed to be moving in that direction, so he made good time. Magnus waved to a few of his crew that he passed on the street. Magnus had lost his second ship at sea several months ago, and what remained of his ship's crew had settled in to the waterfront area and now took whatever work they could find. Some had died in the wreck, and others had abandoned him once safely reaching shore - to those, he was considered unlucky, and the epithet "Twice-Drowned" was whispered quietly behind his back - but a core bunch of loyal sailors stood ready to follow him should be once more obtain a ship.

He reached the entrance of the Graves and paid for his ticket. Passing inside, he spotted the arena's owner, Braeden Fuller. He heard the man calling a warning for people to finish placing their bets as the festivities were due to commence. Magnus ignored the calls. No bets for him today. He simply wanted to watch, and he couldn't really afford it anyway. He needed to save what he could to fund the building of a new ship, though he hoped to find a wealthy backer from whom he could secure an investment, and frittering money away at the games would place him in an unflattering light. Besides, sometimes one could spot a decent fighter in the arena, and maybe offer them a position in his crew. If the contender survived, that is.

Besides, he didn't like or trust Fuller. The man had his fingers in too many pots, and Magnus was certain the man was connected to the criminal underbelly of Tidecleft. Not that Magnus was much better, but at least he had the veneer of being able to call himself a privateer, rather than pirate. Respectability was a fine line, and Magnus considered himself to be a gentleman of sorts, even if he did enjoy the occasional evening tavern brawl.

The privateer found his way to where the common folk sat and dropped heavily onto a seat. Those around gave the man plenty of elbow room. Who wanted to get in the way of someone who looked more like he belonged in the arena than as a spectator?

[Tentreto]

"And you, my good man? Will you be wagering this day?"[/QUOTE]

Buce shook is head. "Not on the criminal fights. Though I might check the odds on the Greythorns if you have faith in them."


Later
The Salt Graves common seats

Buce looked around the mostly filled out seats. He clutched his bet of the Greythorns winning, which had cost three unums, a fairly hefty bet, but to be honest, he needed something to raise his spirits, especially as the criminal fights would come first.
Glancing around, the only space he could currently see was a space right at the front, which was being argued over by two individuals in the isle.
"I got here First!"
"But I put my drink here before that!"
Buce quickly slid past their debate and sat down in the seat. Both of the men turned, and realising that they no longer had a seat, quickly went off to find one before they were all gone. Buce allowed himself a smile. Maybe he was luckier than he thought.

[Nefarion Xid]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves, First Tier Atrium

"Good day, Master Nicolescu." Alden gave a polite nod to the art dealer. With his nearly bare chest, Artur could see one of the artifact he'd inspect to confirm Alden's identity -- a trinket really, though a historical curiosity. At his throat, Alden wore a silver coin from antiquity, the face of some nearly forgotten emperor all but faded away from generations of rubbing against skin and clothing. Unfortunately, in its state it wasn't worth much, not with a hole drilled out just above the emperor's head so it could be strung on a necklace. Still, in 1505, one enchanted young woman had thought to record its appearance in her diary along with detailed, if poetic, descriptions of Alistair Briarcroft. It had come to him by way of his mother's father and was frequently seen wearing it. It looked as if Alden was continuing the tradition.

While Artur greeted the others, Alden flagged down a servant and requested a betting sheet. He frowned, looking over the odds. "What the devil is a Hoss Bravo?"

[Aedilred]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves, First Tier Atrium


"Your favourite? Georgio will be ever so disappointed to hear that." A small smirk twitched at the corner of her lips for a moment.

"Is he coming, do you know? I imagine he might be occupied with the renovations." Last Senna had heard, their cousin had grand plans for her parents old estate on Lilac Lane.

"Not so far as I am aware. I don't think this is... entirely his scene." Nor really was it Sunyer's, and he could hardly imagine Senna being thrilled to attend. "My brother and Lady Sofia will also not be joining us." He was rather grateful to Sofia for having made the decision for him: he would not want Guillyer here if it could be avoided. This kind of savagery was no place for an impressionable young boy. Jousting or fencing or other proper honourable combat and display of the masculine arts was one thing, but this felt rather distasteful.

"Of course, none of this really compares to throwing me in prison for giving my name to a clerk. Impersonating a noble is a serious crime. I could have been the main event at the Graves today, martyred for attempting to access my own accounts. Alden: Patron Saint of Clerical Work!"

"That was indeed an outrage."


"Still, criminals are being sent to the Graves more and more commonly these days. I would not expect that zealousness to change anytime soon." King Frederick's enjoyment of the matches would see to that.

"Accused criminals, I believe, Miss Sinclair, although the publicity for this event did not make much of the distinction. This is supposed to be a trial, after all." His voice was studiedly neutral, though he could not prevent a slight narrowing of the eyes. He had grave doubts over the extent to which the interests of justice were served by combining them with entertainment, and while he was not overly concerned about fair treatment of brigands and ruffians, he was less confident about the Westley situation. Initially he had viewed it with a somewhat blasé attitude - rapists should get what they deserve, after all - but some pertinent remarks from his stepmother had struck home and he had started to view the young man with rather more sympathy.

[Tychris1]

Sunday Morning
Briarcroft Tower

"So I'm to go to-" "The Salt Graves! Post haste! Every minute we waste is another minute my freedom and my wife elude me! NOT THIS TIME!" Bergen cut in as suddenly his inanimate form took on a very animated gait, the previously nervous actor held within now flabbergasted by his sudden pounding footsteps, and he stammered out a question "Hold on, wife? Freedom? Who are you?" Throwing open the discrete side entrance of the tower, Bergen hissed with equal levels of kingly orotund notes and mist-drenched keys of despair "I am a dead man walking. You are my alibi to sift amongst the living on my noble quest. Tell no one and you shall be paid handsomely. Speak of this and I shall snap you like the wolf biting the babies neck. Now, quick! Quick!" Staring after the entourage of the Duke as it escaped from sight, Bergen cursed at himself and proceeded to sprint with all the strength of the dead.

"O-O-O-OKAAAAAAAAY!"

Finding himself rapidly eating the dirt of his target, Bergen buckled and stumbled to a halt. "This is getting me nowhere. Damn my greaves! Cursed to trudge like the shuffling masses!...." Kicking a giant chunk of dirt out of the ground, Bergen watched the earth go airbone before rapidly hitting the ground once more, and as the flying debris reached head level he noticed a figure before him.

A man on horseback.

A satchel sat on his side and considering his generally sophisticated attire Bergen presumed him to be some kind of noble messenger or courtier. From the way he disdainfully looked down at the furtive masses implied a level of protection and superiority over the common folk, a shield of status, and upon his chestnut horse he almost seemed to be in a different world from the rest of them.

It provided no protection from Bergen's cold iron fist.

Gripping the front of his fluffy shirt tightly, Bergen flung the messenger effortlessly through the air and onto a cart of cabbages behind him. The vendor screamed in dismay at the sight of his product being destroyed but the Fallen King paid the scene no mind. He had a wife to find.


Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves

Bergen pulled the reins of his steed harshly as the sight of the Graves (As it was described to him by Alden offhandedly) loomed overhead. Sliding off of the horse, he handed the reins to the first person he encountered and cheerily gave it to them as a gift. He passed by the various merchents and vendors paying them no mind as he sought the one who could grant him access to this bloody spectacle. Standing over many of the people milling about he was an odd sight to be sure, drawing the attention of a few curious people before they shrugged and went about their business, and he stared deeply into each of them searching for his wife's pure crystal eyes. He did not find them anywhere. Deflating in defeat, he heard the groans of Adrian within his metal form and quickly rectified his posture out of pity for the poor boy. Procuring a ticket, he easily pushed his way through the motley crowd and began the painstaking process of trying to find a seat.

"This is what I have been reduced to, forced to sit amongst the common masses and carry around a child to reduce the amount of fear I may distill in others at my ghastly sight. The King of Nothing indeed."

He groaned interally to himself before finding a spot oddly vacant of people save for one woman with a disturbing presence in her eyes. She sat on the cold stone and stared hungrily into the pits, as if she were one of the advertised beasts to be thrown into the mess. Sitting down beside her on the cold stone, Bergen felt no discomfort at the touch, and politely inquired "Is this seat taken?"

[Mary_Sue]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves, First Tier Atrium

With a polite clearing of his throat, Artur made his presence known.
“Duke Briarcroft, your Grace.” He bowed formally.
“Baron Berenguel, my Lord.” A slightly less deep bow.
Miss Clark, Miss Sinclair,” He acknowledged each in turn, taking their offered hand in his, and pressing his lips to the back of his own, gloved, hand.
“Harland, always a pleasure.” He spoke, finally, to Regor.

"Good day, Master Nicolescu." Senna smiled politely as Artur took her hand.

"I trust the day finds you well."

While Artur greeted the others, Alden flagged down a servant and requested a betting sheet. He frowned, looking over the odds. "What the devil is a Hoss Bravo?"

Senna was distracted from Artur's answer by the duke's question.

"Not a what, Your Grace, but a who." A grin had appeared upon her face as she was well amused by his words.

"Hoss Bravo is a big brute of a man, by all accounts good-natured and rather dim. He seems to have a knack for getting into trouble, I believe he has survived two of these matches previously?" She looked around to her fellows for confirmation.

[Nefarion Xid]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves, First Tier Atrium

After a few affirming nods, the duke scoffed, "Oh, then by all means, I'll have two thousand on the brute to win. His odds are three to two."

This comment won him a number of disproving glances, which he dismissed with an icy stare.

The prospect of gambling seemed to do wonders for Briarcroft's mood. He'd seen enough to know when outside forces were at work. No one could be dumb enough to face trial by combat thrice. Someone had engineered this. Surely, someone would engineer his downfall too, but that would come later. He idly wondered how much money it would take to have Hoss poisoned. If someone didn't see to that around the fifth time

Shrugging off the evil notion, the duke gestured for the impresario and placed his bet. "Em, better make that four thousand, Bravo to win. Thousand on the Greythrons as well. Ladies, do you have any favorites? I'll be happy to cover them." He turned back to Everly and Senna before signing his name in Fuller's book.

[PepperP.]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves, First Tier Atrium

Shrugging off the evil notion, the duke gestured for the impresario and placed his bet. "Em, better make that four thousand, Bravo to win. Thousand on the Greythorns as well. Ladies, do you have any favorites? I'll be happy to cover them." He turned back to Everly and Senna before signing his name in Fuller's book.

Everly raised a delicate eyebrow at the duke's large bets. Either he had exaggerated the dire state of his affairs or he knew something about the match that she did not. Or perhaps he just wanted to show off. Everly looked around, several others had overheard the duke's bets, she was certain word of them would spread before the first match. A rather roguish smile curved her lips, if he was inviting her to ride his notoriety coattails, it would be impolite of her to decline.

"Your Grace is too generous. My money is on Mr. Bravo as well." She was not really a betting woman, but Hoss seemed to be smart money.

[Minescratcher]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves, First Tier Atrium

"Hoss Bravo is a big brute of a man, by all accounts good-natured and rather dim. He seems to have a knack for getting into trouble, I believe he has survived two of these matches previously?"

"Indeed, and reportedly come out without injury each time. if half of what I've heard is to be believed," Regor chuckled. "The tigers must hate him."

Finding a sheet of his own, he glanced down the numbers, stopping only once to ask himself, What sort of fool would bet on Westley both to win and lose? Why are the odds on that even listed? He followed the numbers back up the page, then up off of it entirely, scanning the atrium once more. Just in case.

Once the Duke was done placing his bets, Regor wrote in his own, rather more modest ones, muttering, "Hmm, I like the Greythorns' chances myself...." He seemed to be getting into the spirit of things now as he handed over the coins, more upbeat and those who had noticed his glances would have seen them coming less frequently now.

[Mary_Sue]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves, First Tier Atrium

After a few affirming nods, the duke scoffed, "Oh, then by all means, I'll have two thousand on the brute to win. His odds are three to two."

This comment won him a number of disproving glances, which he dismissed with an icy stare.

The prospect of gambling seemed to do wonders for Briarcroft's mood. He'd seen enough to know when outside forces were at work. No one could be dumb enough to face trial by combat thrice. Someone had engineered this. Surely, someone would engineer his downfall too, but that would come later. He idly wondered how much money it would take to have Hoss poisoned. If someone didn't see to that around the fifth time

Shrugging off the evil notion, the duke gestured for the impresario and placed his bet. "Em, better make that four thousand, Bravo to win. Thousand on the Greythrons as well. Ladies, do you have any favorites? I'll be happy to cover them." He turned back to Everly and Senna before signing his name in Fuller's book.

Senna seemed amused by the thought of pacing a bet.

"Oh I hadn't really thought about it. Can I bet on the tigers?" Her smile faded a touch.

"I know, I shall bet on Westly surviving the match. 100 please. And thank you, Your Grace. You are quite generous." If she was going to watch the match anyway, she may as well have a somebody worth rooting for.

[Nefarion Xid]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves, First Tier Atrium

"Ah, there we are then, one hundred for Mr. Gultch to keep his mortal coil un-shuffled and another hundred on the Bravo for Miss Sinclair. And another glass because I don't mean to watch this entirely sober." Reaching past the impresario, Alden placed his empty glass on the tray and pilfered a full one.

"Gultch is a bit of a long shot, isn't he?" The look the duke gave Senna wasn't a disapproving one, but he had a small pout on his full lips. "The servants have been clucking about that one. According to them, he's some sort of star crossed romantic."

Shortly, the impresario announced that bets were closed and bid everyone find their seats in the arena.

[Jade_Tarem]

Tidecleft, Sunday Morning
Ascending

The city went on, and on, and on, and Sable couldn't exactly whip out her tools and start scaling it more efficiently. She refused to be daunted by the size of it, though - a plan would come in time, and for now, she needed to gather information.

The language processing was still ongoing, but she had other ways of learning things. A huge mass of people was moving toward some kind of... arena like structure near the waterfront. Translation on it was shaky at best, but it appeared like some kind of combat, or perhaps an execution, was scheduled. This was apparently A Big Deal around here, and she made a mental note of that, along with a second one.

Whatever identity I establish here, I'm "new in town." She couldn't pretend to have grown up here, there was too much she didn't know. She suspect that would still be the case at the end of her mission.

That left setting goals. Strictly speaking, she was to seek out and destroy any 'magical' equipment, gear, weaponry, arcana, texts, or active effects that might assist the people of Pravia in locating Sanctum, or else might push them toward avenues of research that would lead them in that general direction. Once located, she was to destroy them and, if necessary, anyone who insisted on continuing to pursue them.

That hadn't been a problem in the last town. Upon seeing his life's work up in flames, the man whose lab she'd burned had promptly walked off a nearby cliff.

Shaking that unhappy thought away, Sable activated her Aetheric Insight again and began taking a good long look at the city's infrastructure as she walked. The massive causeways were impressive, and obviously magical in nature, but geological and architectural reinforcement was only a tertiary priority target - and the most complex work involved in them was still mathematical more than anything. The engineers knew what they were doing, they just lacked the materials to make the ruling class's dreams reality without cheating. No, she'd leave the bridges alone for now, though noted that taking one down in the pursuit of a larger target would be a bonus.

She wished for a speedy conclusion to the language algorithm. Wandering around, dumb and illiterate, always made her feel even more alien than she really was.

[zabbarot]

Sunday Morning, Salt Graves

"Mr Pheonix is a good guy." said Hoss, half shouting.

Bundy stood up, moved to the bars of his cage, and stared into Lucre with his icy blue eyes, surprised and inquisitive, but intense.

"Thank you, dear," Lucre smiled back at him, "Oh! That looks just perfect on you. Lilly, help him adjust the belt." He turned back to Andon, "You seem nice enough though, so I'll clue you in. Actually you'll all realize it soon enough, so you might as well listen up." Violet laid a wooden box down for Lucre to step up onto and he did. "These are no ordinary clothes. I'm sure you're all aware that a bit of illusion is common amongst the best haberdashers. Sometimes the fabric needs a bit of help to meet the structural needs of genius." With a flourish of his wrist Lucre produced a single black rose. "What some don't realize however, is that we are not limited by reality. Yes, we can reproduce something that looks and feels like the softest fabric, but," he swung the rose at one of the iron bars and it rang out as if he'd stuck it with a steel rod, then disappeared in a puff of smoke, "I have never considered myself to be so limited. The clothes you are receiving today are part of a public test of a new material for my new line. I said it was for mercenaries. It's built for mercenaries. It isn't quite as strong as steel, but it can slow a blade enough to save your life. Today we'll see how it fairs against the tigers, and if you survive, which I truly hope some of you do, you can look forward to some easy coin helping me extol it's virtues."

Spoiler: Plot Ticket

Show

Secret business dealings! Lucre Phoenix is using today's games to exhibit a breakthrough in haberdashery! One that will likely upset armorers and is just barely inside the letter of the law when it comes to trial by combat (Combatants are not permitted any metal armor.)

[TechnOkami]

Ionatán
Sunday Morning
Salt Graves

The crowds were gathered. Men and women of all stocks and colors from high and low across society had come to witness a show. The grave itself was an endless and ever open one; the taste of salt on the lips reminiscent of that sickly sweet smell brought on by death. Agitation and anticipation were in equal measure today. People have come for blood, and blood they shall receive... but not without a show!

Upon the Salt Graves tread a figure from one of its many gated entrances. A thin thing of light musculature, though hardly the most prominent. No, most would first take note of the three point horns erupting like tree branches from the curled horns that crowned the sides of this figures head. Working past the goatee, beard, and long hair was that aforementioned bare, glistening chest, yet where one would think bare nakedness was all you would receive if you kept looking down you were instead met with fur, fur that matched the hair and stretched down to a pair of black, cleft glossy hooves. The figure looked around with a bright smile to his face, and if one saw closely enough, solid gold eyes to behold the crowd around him.

He walked to the half-oval's center, raising his arms to the crowds.

"Ladies and Gentlemen. Good morning, and welcome to the Salt Graves!", began the fuzzy horned man.

"Today's entertainment will be brought to us by means of survival of the fittest, animal against man, though I admit I sympathize with such a push and pull of powers for I am a Satyr, and have a bit of both in me!"

Whatever whispers or conclusions which would normally bloom from such a statement were interrupted as the self-stated Satyr began to speak once more.

"I must confess my fair people that I am a bit of a newcomer to the wondrous city of Tidecleft, and have yet to truly experience all she has to offer. Don't think me ignorant though, for I am well traveled enough to recognize a King when I see one!" He finished his statement with an open hand presented towards the royal box, where King Frederick Atherton and Queen Winifred sat. The crowd, naturally no doubt, broke into applause at the sheer mention of their king as a display of the unanimous loyalty and unity they held with and behind him.

"But as a King your Majesty, isn't this a tad bit of a, how shall we say, lowly place for you to be in? Now now I don't mean to say that your love for the games is unwarranted, as all love a good bloody fight whether they be spectator or participant. No no I refer to the arena itself, a stadium set upon the tides of the sea herself. Would it not rather be, my King, more fitting for one of your royal station to host a game like this, say, at the deepest depths of the ocean herself?"

At this, some of the crowd would have burst into laughter at the impossible notion, which the Satyr promptly ignored yet again.

"Don't believe me? Well, I will have to show you!"

The Satyr clopped his way over to the oceanic edge of the Salt Graves itself, where he knelt down and splashed his hand a bit in the cold saltwater. He then reached his hand into the water, and pulled at it like a blanket. It seemed effortless how he did it, for he simply started walking backwards with the ocean itself, and it followed where he dragged it like an endless cloth of water. He pulled 'til he was towards the Graves' center once again, then threw it to his side, sending a wave clashing against the wall. The water began to churn and swirl around him, filling and filling until the water erupted in a solid column of the stuff, and then stretched to encompass where the crowd itself sat. Immediate panic set in as many thought this to be quite real, until they realized that they were still breathing though apparently underwater, even if they could see the exhale of bubbles from their mouths. All looked around them in amazement, as the Salt Graves was suddenly at the depths of the ocean floor, sunken cyclopean ruins littered around the Satyr and well past him where the ocean entrance was, though the ocean was all around him.

"Behold the ocean depths!"

Immediate applause.

"But perhaps we've sunken too low now, being on the ocean floor and all that eh? I think a more fitting station for a King and his games would be sitting upon the peak of a mountain, wouldn't you agree?"

Almost immediately alongside his words, they seemed to rise up and out from the ocean deeps towards the sky, and a tumbling very much heard yet not felt alerted everyone to the idea that they must be rising from a mountain springing from the water itself, until they were just out of reach of the clouds themselves, the winds roaring and roiling to tousle the hair of the crowd goers.

"Now this is a royal setting indeed. Only the highest of peaks for the mightiest of kings!"

As the crowd unleashed another barrage of applause upon the Satyr, he methodically began stroking that wryly goatee of his in thought.

"...I feel as if some bit if panache is missing still. What though? We have the height of the place, the wailing winds and clouds a-swirling... what else could be-" He then stopped, and went wide eyed with realization. A smile crept across his face, a devious, sadistic smile of pure glee at the thoughts which were unfolding inside his head.

"The blood, of course! How could I be so foolish as to neglect the blood? But of the prisoners you would think? Nay, of the earth!"

What happened then was an eruption, though an odd eruption at that. They could definitely hear it, and they could surely see the arena sway about them, but they could not feel it. That, at least, would be noteworthy for the more calm of mind and keener of the senses. Most of the crowd was fixated on the sudden darkening of the sky, and an eerie orange glow which began to overtake the surroundings. It formed more prominently by the oceanic entrance, as the orange glow which slowly grew in strength and intensity revealed itself to be the very vulcan essence of the world, the solid earth made liquid and raging with heat. All could feel it radiate from beneath them, though none could say it was overwhelming in its intensity. The ground of the Salt Graves itself began to take on an eerie under-glow, as if the earth threatened to open upon those who were to undergo battle upon it; jets of smoke and steam seemed to erupt sporadically across its dubiously solid surface. Across where the ocean should have been was an object coming into view. It was long and flat across the molten surface of the now volcano the Salt Graves stood upon, made of some unknown material similar to wrought iron. It sailed to the ocean opening on the grounds itself. The Satyr stepped upon it and turned to face the crowd once more.

"Behold, a battlefield worthy of a monarch!"

The crowd roared in response.

"Ah yes, how rude of me to not introduce myself after all those theatrics. My name is Ionatán! Ionatán O'cochlain! I have no home here in the mighty Tidecleft, but I would be happy to stay with whomever would desire my entertainment services the most!"

He slammed his hoof upon that metal ship and began sailing just out of the reach of the fighting grounds itself.

"LET THE GAMES BEGIN!"

[lt_murgen]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves, First Tier Atrium
Finding a sheet of his own, he glanced down the numbers, stopping only once to ask himself, What sort of fool would bet on Westley both to win and lose? Why are the odds on that even listed? He followed the numbers back up the page, then up off of it entirely, scanning the atrium once more. Just in case.

Artur looked up from his wine at the comment. Whatever one thought of the Graves, and of Bloodsports in particular, Braedon Fuller knew his business. The odds were always stacked in the house's favor. If "win, but lose to injury' was listed, there had to be a reason behind it. And never less than a truly nefarious one.

"Impresario, if you please. 500 on Gulch to win, but lose. And 500 on the Greythorns."

[B]Sunday Morning
"Gultch is a bit of a long shot, isn't he?" The look the duke gave Senna wasn't a disapproving one, but he had a small pout on his full lips. "The servants have been clucking about that one. According to them, he's some sort of star crossed romantic."

"Yes, your Grace. The city is quite divided over the man. Some claim he is a rake of the basest kind. Others claim he is a victim of true love being dashed against the bedrock of culture and class. Either way, the wagers will be strongly swayed by the sentiment of the bettor."

Shortly, the impresario announced that bets were closed and bid everyone find their seats in the arena.

Ionatán

"LET THE GAMES BEGIN!"

Artur was impressed. More than impressed. He recognized an artist when he saw one. And this...man? thing? Had enough talent to overcome Artur's natural distaste for performance art and non-humans. Massively overcome it. He quickly arranged for a note to be brought to Ionatan after the conclusion of the festivities, requesting his presence at the Guardhouse at his earliest convienence.

[TheDarkDM]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves

Molly was growing bored. Sensible shoes tapped with increasing rapidity against the stone bench in front of her, as the last flakes of puff pastry were licked from her fingers. The calm before a storm of violence was always the worst time for her, not because of any fear or hesitation, but because of her unruly blood. She considered the crowd, and was gratified at least to see the same eager impetuousness on many of the faces around her. It promised to be an exciting day. At least once it got started. So consumed was she in trying to keep hold of her excitement, Molly barely registered the heavy footfalls of the man approaching from behind her. At least, until she turned and saw an antiquated suit of armor looming over her.

"Is this seat taken?"

Her mouth opened slightly in shock at the strange scene, he imminent fight temporarily forgotten. It was hard to make out the face in the shadows of the helm, but there was a queer quality to the eyes. Stranger still, that someone would wear a family heirloom to so public an event.

"Not...taken, no. Are you in the right place, though? Seems you'd be more comfortable up a ways."

Her eyes flicked down towards the stands of the lesser nobility, close enough to see every movement in the oncoming ballet of violence. Armor suggested a wealth that would allow him entry, and she wasn't about to indulge some noble's attempt to slum it in the commons. But before that question could be answered, the strange fellow with cloven hooves appeared on the arena floor.

And all hell broke loose.

Unaccustomed to panic, Molly nevertheless felt her heart lurch as the surface of the arena was transfigured into a ruddy hellscape. All around her, people who had been on a knife's edge already erupted into a full panic, streaming towards the exits as jets of steam erupted behind them. Most were intent on escape, but in a mob there were ever opportunists. A man made a grab for Molly's skirt in the confusion, only to fall away with a broken nose for his trouble. Near the entrance, two men made a run for one of the betting stations, only to be cut down by the long knives of the Salt Graves' guards. Somewhere, a woman was screaming for her children, and as Molly stood she saw the ripple of chaos streaming along the common seats. Aiming a swift kick at another ruffian that looked overlong at her, she turned back to the strange armored man.

"So, you still want to sit?"

[Aedilred]

For most of the introductory ceremony, Sunyer showed little more than polite interest in what was going on. The whole thing was rather overblown and over-indicated for his taste: spectacle shouldn't need to announce itself, but should rather just be. While not a magical man himself, he had seen enough displays in his time too to recognise that the man in the arena was little more than an enthusiastic amateur. His illusions would fool the unschooled eye of the commons, perhaps, but he wondered if to the king they might look somewhat... cheap.

Then the hellscape appeared, and he began to wonder if the satyr would escape with his life. A battlefield fit for a monarch - and you show us that? What does that say about your opinion of the royal family, Mr Ionatan?

Something caught his ear, or eye, quite apart from the illusions, however. The unschooled eye of the commons... Oh gods.

He turned to Regor and spoke quietly. "Mister Guest of His Grace, are you capable with that weapon you carry? I fear we may have cause to defend the king - and ourselves - if something cannot be done to calm the storm that fool is brewing for us."