Tidecleft: Edge of the Storm (IC)

[Minescratcher]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves, First Tier Atrium

Regor recoiled momentarily as the Satyr worked his illusion, reflexively leaning back from the Atrium's massive window. As it continued, he relaxed more and more - until the panic below reached his ears. He immediately snapped upright and searched the room for any sign of the assassins he awaited - this was pretty much the perfect distraction. Nothing showed itself, for now.

"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."

"Capable enough, my Lord, and I have a few small magical abilities that may also prove themselves useful," he responded in a lower voice. "I hope it will not come to that, though." Regor's hand went to his ring, making sure it was still there and ready.

[Othniel]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves

Oh gods, what is this? Magnus sat stunned as he beheld the...witchcraft before him. He hated magic; it only caused problems as far as he was concerned, and he could already see those around him start to panic and look for the exits. The danger of being drowned didn't phase the pirate, he'd been nearly lost at sea twice, and that was old hat. But the...fiery liquid, now that looked bad. Almost as bad as the poor souls who were about to be trampled to death by their fellow citizens. He stood and looked for the owner of the Graves. Braeden Fuller was a detestable man, but he knew how to keep order.

As if on cue, Fuller appeared at the announcer's box, flanked by a quartet of guards armed with clockbows. "What's all this then!?" He glared at the horned figure and pointed as the guards brandished their weapons. Around the arena, more guards fanned out, both attempting to keep the spectators from trampling each other in their terror and trying to keep an eye on the disruptive person. "You there! I order you to cease...whatever it is you did!"

Spoiler: Plot Ticket

Show

Braeden Fuller, owner and operator of The Salt Graves, takes a dim view of anyone going outside the prearranged entertainment. This includes people in the stands attempting to aid or hinder those in the ring, assault of spectators, or general disruption of the games. He has a team of paid security guards to handle anyone who gets out of line, and has no qualms about ordering them to use lethal force if necessary. And right now, Ionatán has his full ire.

[Nefarion Xid]

Salt Graves, First Tier

Briarcroft had just found his seat between Everly and Senna when the spectacle began. Even when the brawling started, he sat still, holding his Rosé in one hand and a small platter of inexplicably acquired tartines in the other -- some blend of ricotta and goat cheese topped with shaved radish and a drizzle of honey.

"Do you mean to say this isn't how these events normally go?" He rose with a huff and set his hors d'oeuvres on his vacant pillow; he kept his wine at hand though.

"Miss Clark, I think you'd better stand behind me. Miss Sinclair, I ... understand your vocation involves killing vampires. I'm sure you'll be fine."

[PepperP.]

Salt Graves, First Tier

Briarcroft had just found his seat between Everly and Senna when the spectacle began. Even when the brawling started, he sat still, holding his Rosé in one hand and a small platter of inexplicably acquired tartines in the other -- some blend of ricotta and goat cheese topped with shaved radish with and a drizzle of honey.

"Do you mean to say this isn't how these events normally go?" He rose with a huff and set his hors d'oeuvres on his vacant pillow; he kept his wine at hand though.

"Miss Clark, I think you'd better stand behind me. Miss Sinclair, I ... understand your vocation involves killing vampires. I'm sure you'll be fine."

Though she knew better, Everly couldn't help but hold her hand out as though to touch the water and the later hellscape that had followed the aquatic theme. Her childlike wonder was short lived however, as those in the common seats began to exit in a disorderly mass of hysteria. She downed her wine in a gulp and stood alongside the duke.

"Only the ones that require killing." Her smile was pleased as she quickly scanned the arena for the nearest open flame. It being warm and mid-day, none could be found at a convenient distance so she produced a sharp, shiny silver dagger and held it at the ready. Though nobody could be said to be threatening them at the moment.

"I am touched you know so much about me." Her voice was playful though the mirth did not reach her eyes as she kept alert for possible threats.

[Tychris1]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves

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

A small rumble escaped from Bergen's breastplate, a facisimile of laughter for the Ghostly King, and he looked down over where the nobles sat. But before he could properly retort, that thing took center stage, and suddenly Bergen found himself flung back centuries in his mind. A warzone surrounded him, screaming men and women rushing to and fro, fire raining down from above, arrow heads whizzing by missing by inches, and the only recognizable friendly face being his Shieldmaiden Gruntilda. A man slammed against Bergen's armor, his body instantly crumpling against the cold iron frame of the King, and yet two more joined in quickly in an attempt to loot some of Bergen's ostentatious attire. A bottle was smashed over his helmet, causing Adrian to grunt, and yet Bergen was completely unfazed. Snapped back to the present day, he took the fat nosed bottle wielding man by the leg and hoisted him upside down. Vigorously shaking the man of all the possessions in his pocket, Bergen watched as a knife and several other trinkets fell out.

"So, you still want to sit?"

Suddenly remembering the woman's presence, Bergen turned back to face her as the sea of chaos raged around them, and he continued to shake the man until he eventually passed out. "Maybe once this is over. Here, take this." He offered her the man's knife "Stay calm!" He boomed to the various fleeing and panicking citizens around him, but mostly directed at the quivering pile of flesh that was Adrian.

[Tentreto]

Buce held his nerve during the panic in the common seats. With a seat at the front, his only way to escape would be into the arena, which would be suicide. It also helped that he knew this was in no way harmful, just some illusion magic, which every so often he had had to watch out for from his guild days.
So, while there was panic behind him, and the people sitting next to him ran from there seats, Buce sat there, flinching only when the orange liquid appeared. Buce pulled his hood up, and closed his eyes. Like this, he could almost imagine nothing was there. Apart from the screaming, which was almost worse.

"You there! I order you to cease...whatever it is you did!"

That had torn it. Whoever that satyr was, he had probably lost his wage for the day, and possibly worse. Buce personally had enjoyed it for its grandeur, though, that might have been its problem. Buce reopened his eyes, and glanced around, looking at the royal box in particular.

"Hope the Kings in a good mood." he muttered, to no one in particular.

[woolli264]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves, outside the arena, common seats

Little Bear heard noises in the arena nearby, Damn. I'm missing it. he thought to himself as he stuffed a pastry in his mouth and began to head to the graves at a quickened pace. He had made such an effort to see the legendary Hoss Bravo in combat that he could not stand the thought of missing the event.
He swallowed another pastry and took off at a run. A small child stared, his head slightly tilted as the massive hairy man came barreling past them with a sac slung over his shoulder and a pastry in his free hand. He would have to tell his brothers about this when he got home.

Little Bear rounded a corner and made it to the commoner seats just in time to see the arena burst into flames and a stampede of people come fleeing towards him. Little Bear came to a halt in astonishment. He felt like the little kid as he the goat legged man who claimed himself responsible for this left the arena. What's all this? was all he could think before the wave slammed into him. Unfortunately this was not an illusory wave from earlier but a wave of panicked event goers fleeing the newly decorated arena. Chaos ensued as Little Bear tried to push his way through, he was sure the event would go on even if these people weren't to see it. People darted by, someone stole his last pastry right out of his hand, a woman tripped in front of him so he helped her up and kept walking, he felt a tug in his sac but a loud growl was enough to frighten away the would be thief. Then suddenly he came upon the girl from the pastry vendor, sitting beside a man in armour, surely a knight, and beating the snot out of some fellow who must've done something terribly offensive.

Little Bear decided he had imitated a salmon for long enough and would take one of the now many free seats on the bench. He sat down on the other side of the girl from the armoured fellow looked into the unusually fiery arena and said, "Well that's one way to start the games that I haven't seen before."

[Lleban]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves

About half an hour after the blue lady left Duggin heard noises coming from the arena, perhaps it's time to end this pastry venture. Realizing he had little better to do, duggin remembered that the blue mercenary invited him to sit in her box.

After moving the cart to a carriage area and making sure he had enough coins to satisfy Aunt Margret Duggin set off to find to the mercenary seats. This shouldn't be too hard.

Salt Graves: 5 Minutes Later
Whhyy....whhyyy is this so hard. Finding her should be a piece of cake. Duggin expected a lot, of things today, a paniced mob engulfing him as he made his way to the mercenary stands was not one of them. Being 4'11 in a maelstrom of human panic is a good recipe for getting trampled or worse. Perhaps seeing an easy target two men attempted to rob Duggin while he was struggling to stay afloat within the crowd. The first attempted land a punch right between the eyes excepting to steal his spectacles, while the second man tried to steal Duggin's coin purse. If Duggin were born yesterday, he'd have considered not bringing his knife everywhere. Poor bastards, the thief that went for his coin purse got his fingers cut opened like ripe melons. The thug that had the shear gaul to touch his glasses got a blade slipped roughly through his wrist. This incident had the unfortunate side effect of staining the gloves of his uniform, Damnit Margret's gonna ask me a 1000 questions, and I'll have to clean the uniforms. Duggin sulked at the prospect before finding the blue woman in the viewing stands.

Smiling and giving a now blood soaked thumbs up alerted Nespira " So, what did I miss?"

[TechnOkami]

Ionatán
Sunday Morning
Salt Graves

As if on cue, Fuller appeared at the announcer's box, flanked by a quartet of guards armed with clockbows. "What's all this then!?" He glared at the horned figure and pointed as the guards brandished their weapons. Around the arena, more guards fanned out, both attempting to keep the spectators from trampling each other in their terror and trying to keep an eye on the disruptive person. "You there! I order you to cease...whatever it is you did!"

Spoiler: Plot Ticket

Show

Braeden Fuller, owner and operator of The Salt Graves, takes a dim view of anyone going outside the prearranged entertainment. This includes people in the stands attempting to aid or hinder those in the ring, assault of spectators, or general disruption of the games. He has a team of paid security guards to handle anyone who gets out of line, and has no qualms about ordering them to use lethal force if necessary. And right now, Ionatán has his full ire.

Ionatán, the devious goat man he was, was standing happily in the "iron" boat he was floating in among the "lava" that surrounded him, gleefully smiling to himself as he watched the spectacle of the crowd's reaction to his performance through a spyglass. They must have loved it, obviously. Though as he looked around, he noticed a rather cross looking Mr. Fuller, marching in his direction with a small contingency of guards behind him. Oblivious to any trouble he might be in, Ionatán greeted the gentleman with a wave of the hand, from the safety of a few yards of illusory lava between them.

Listening to his rather blatant request didn't sit well with the Satyr, however.

"Oh come now Mister Fuller, I haven't done anything worth ceasing the festivities over! And besides, I'm under contractual obligation to deliver the aforementioned show at one Salt Graves for its duration, with my only stipulation being that I'm to deliver a show "like none other".

The Satyr said this as he produced a paper document, sealed and signed by two parties with a promise of payment therein.

I've brought your coliseum to the depths of the ocean and to the tippity top of a volcanic crater, all without water or fire damages to the property itself! How can you call rain and water to snuff out such a feat, all within a span of minutes good sir?"

Noticeably, he did not ask the man who was actually rowing the boat to move closer to shore.

[Rolepgeek]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves

Andon breathed in deeply. A part of him was vaguely surprised at being able to do so comfortable in the outfit Lucre had given him, but the man was Guildmaster for a reason, it seemed. He didn't sacrifice practicality for fashion, apparently. He'd been trying for the last half an hour or so not to damage the illusions that had been put into his -and the other combatants'- new clothing. While Andon was reasonably certain he didn't particularly need it, if Lucre connected it to him, the man would probably be...upset. Having an armored clothing line's debut showing involve it being torn to shreds was likely to shred sales.

Andon also struggled not to affect the illusion affecting the stage in front of him, with yet greater difficulty. His self-defense reflex had kicked in when the lava started, but he didn't want to ruin the entertainer's performance; Andon had been sure it was paid for by the Graves, and while this method of trial was disgusting for a number of reasons, that was no reason to bring the items of those who run it down on the performer's head. They were obviously skilled; he could tell that much from when he skimmed it the first time it appeared, before he pulled back.

Now, however, with what sounded to be a riot above them, he felt there was a more pressing reason to be involved. Though to be honest, there really didn't need to be much of one. And while the illusionist was skilled, this was a very large illusion, and complicated, too. There was plenty of space for him to reach in and pry some ends loose.

So Andon grabbed one of those threads, and pulled. And pulled, and pulled, as the whole weave of the magic fell apart, and into him. Outwardly, he would just look like he was standing with his mouth slightly open, brow furrowed in concentration, at first. But as the illusion began to recede, grow patchy, and finally die, his scars would glow silver, and his face lit up, fatigue disappearing alongside the illusion.

This! This was what he'd been hoping for! By Faelkas and all the gods it was a relief to feel it again. Magic, filling his very bones with the him and thrill of it. Illusion magic might make his senses a tad unreliable for a bit, but it didn't matter! Andon could feel his pains leaving him, and by the time the last of the molten rock had drained towards the gate they stood behind (as this is what anyone bothering to watch would see, as the illusion strained to fill it's purpose even while it slid down the former knight's gullet), he felt duly satisfied.

Andon was looking forward to this fight, now. He had been expecting to have to work with one of the others, perhaps Westley, in order to win without a great deal of pain or injury. Now, he thought, Now I can show the strength my Lord has given me.

[TechnOkami]

Ionatán
Sunday Morning
Salt Graves

As he finished pleading, the illusory world Ionatán painted about him vanished into the gullet of a magic-hungry man whom he didn't know. The sky was its normal blue. The ground sturdy and solid and ever so painfully brown. The lava now cold, salty ocean once again. His first reaction would have been sadness, annoyance when he threw the document into the now normal water, and then resignation as he slammed his hoof onto the now very wooden boat he stood on.

"Ach, be done with it then. My show's ruined."

The boatman sailed back to the edge of the Salt Graves, Ionatán walked upon plain ground, and grumpily raised his arms forward to the establishment's owner to be clapped in irons.

[DoomHat]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves,
Holding Area

The four fighters had just been moved past the first layer of portcullis when the illusions began, and the sounds of chaos erupted. Horns blared, summoning the stadium's guards to action. With the accused trapped in the small tunnel between the arena proper and the small armory where they'd been issued their choice of knives and clubs for the fight ahead, their escorts felt safe in briefly abandoning them to check on the disturbance.

Bundy Roberts wasted no time. The moment all but one guard was out of sight, he moved on the inner portcullis and began straining to lift it.

"Hey!" the guard yelled, brandishing his spear, "You get one warning! Step back, now!".

Bundy refused, continuing to strain. The Guard stepped forward to make good on his threat. With lighting speed Bundy released his grip on the gate and grasped the spear as it passed through the bars. Yanking it and the man holding it hard into the portcullis, stunning him.

Pulling the spear the remainder of the way through, he returned to his straining. In the spur of the moment, seeing some wild hope, Westley joined in.

Hoss, bewildered, asked "What are you guys doing? They won't let you fight if you escape!"

"Damn it, Hoss," Westley said, gasping, "Don't you... ugh! Ah, Hoss! They're not going to let us fight!".

"What?!" said Hoss, his face flush with outrage.

"Yeah Hoss, can't you..." Westley gasped, torn between the effort straining against the portcullis's weight and attempting to formulate a lie, "Can't you hear all that fighting in the stands? They're bored with us Hoss, you won't be able to fight a tiger today unless you help us out so we can find them? They're hogging all the tiger fights to themselves up there Hoss!"

With that Hoss added his own strength to the lifting. The three men managed to leverage to gate just high enough to awkwardly slide under.

Pausing a heartbeat to catch his breath, Bundy turned to Hoss, shouted, "Nothing is forgiven. Next time we meet I'm going to rip your guts out Hoss Bravo." and ran away.

Westley followed after, giving Hoss a winning smile and a salute-like gesture.

"Okay! You guys check for tigers that way! Leave one for me if you find them first!" shouted Hoss, waving at their retreating figures happily.

Hoss ran with all his might, untiring for a solid couple minutes and past several confused guards until he found his prize. He paid little mind to armored Salt Graves personnel stabbing and bludgeoning him as he fumbled with the cage latch. His attackers quickly retreated in the face of his success.

Salt Graves,
First Tier

The sound of a great beast roaring in the middle distance was nearly drowned out by a servant's screaming. Soon the roars became far less distant, and less distant still. Clattering up the stairs and into view came a massive panicked tiger. Clinging to its back was a most peculiar man.

He was scarred heavily in a random tapestry all across his visible skin. His outfit consisted of leather boots, orange and black slashed trousers, and a thick leather belt (a girdle really) that covered the abdomen and was embroidered with a menagerie of fearsome creatures. His long black hair wiped around with the rollicking motion of the tiger attempting to throw him between pauses to try clawing him off.

He gripped tightly to the tiger's neck just below the jaw with his arms, and his legs wrapped around the pits of the beast's forelegs. He was laughing maniacally while the beast screamed in confusion and outrage.

Well dressed men and ladies scattered or stood in paralyzed horror, not knowing what direction would prove safe from the beast's random thrashing. It up turned couches and tables and ruined wall drapes with slashes of its mighty claws.

Blind to its surroundings, the beast and rider began hurtling into the couch moment's ago occupied by Alden Briarcroft, Everly Sinclair, and Senna Clark.

PLOT TICKET:

Spoiler

Show

In the chaos of the riot, Bundy Roberts and Westley Gulch are able to equip themselves with simple disguises and escape deep into the city's Web. Rumor has it they died in the confusion, as they are not heard from again for weeks.

[Dorizzit]

[Unknown Crevasse]
Two Weeks Ago

They do not know their own name. They have no history. No memory at all, beyond pain and need. Ideas and concepts, orphaned and mysterious, occasionally flit through their mind, but nothing lasts for long. Trying to hold onto a thought is like trying to hold sand in shaking hands. Not entirely futile, but utterly impermanent. They don't have the energy to devote to fully doing so; they have a more important undertaking at hand.

They cannot move. Two thick chains bind them to the ground below, one at each wrist. Even more than that, a heavy, invisible weight presses down on them from above.

A gravity amplification matrix.

A name for the weight, composed of words they don't understand. What they do understand is that they can reach out to the effect keeping them trapped, and touch it. Mold it. Doing so is agonizingly slow and a process consisting almost entirely out of trial and error, but they have all the time they need. And, now, after an subjective eternity, the solution clicks into place. They feel the effect reverse, pushing them upwards until the chains halt their ascent.

One more step, slow but far simpler than what came before.

One week ago

The second chain snaps. They float upwards, eventually coming to a halt at the upper end of the effect. Reaching out, they feel a hard surface through the darkness. Digging their fingers in, they climb.

The Ocean Floor
Six days ago

There is no more wall. Fingers claw into thick sand as they pull themselves over the edge, collapsing into a heap once they do so. As the burning, aching pain in their body slowly begins to subside, they look upwards at the tiny glimmers of light visible far above.

I can see. I can...I know what that is. I have seen before.

A mystery for another time. They rest, letting the pain fade and giving time to adjust to their newfound sensation. A few hours later, they rise, refreshed despite the agonizing pain in their chest and stomach, and begin walking. Direction is irrelevant. Sooner or later, they will find something.

One hour ago

It's bright, now, but they can only make out blurred shapes through the salt crusting their eyes. Seeing is, for the moment, irrelevant. They don't need to see to walk. To make it to land and air. They don't know the meaning, but they feel an intense need, a knowledge that it will let them escape the pain that has been a constant companion throughout their existence.

A large, dark shape looms before them. Another wall. Not the first, but hopefully the last. Just as the last six were. They wonder if their mind is just playing tricks on them. It doesn't feel like it, everything feels right, feels the way they expect. But perhaps if they were insane, it would feel that way, too.

Nevertheless, they climb.

Three minutes ago

Lights and sounds explode from above, deafening and blinding after so long looking at the same blurs and shapes. They take a moment to adjust, shaking their head before pressing on.

The Salt Graves
Now

Unnoticed in all the commotion, a hand breaks the surface of the bay, pausing for a second before feeling around for the ground and hauling the rest of the body over. Rolling over onto their side, they take a moment and look around, scraping some of the salt from their eyes in the process. The first thing they see is a group of people - humans? - ahead, confronting another like them. They wear strange clothes, carry strange devices - weapons - and look displeased. A chain of flashbacks triggers.

Another group of humans with weapons. Violence. Blood spilling, bursts of pain as heavy impacts rain down on them. Chains. Being dragged away. Being sealed, down in the depths that had been their only memory before now.

A sense of terror creeps over them. Scrambling to their feet, they run as fast as they can. It feels different, moving without the crush of water around them, but if anything it's easier. Lacking any direction, they unconsciously gravitate towards the brightest thing they can see, a streak of black and orange above them. Slamming into another wall, they reorient and climb up it. Reaching the top, they fling themselves over the side just in time to be rammed by an irate predator.

Quickly pushed aside by the beast's strength, they roll to a stop near the feet of the three nearby spectators before vomiting an improbably large amount of salt water onto the ground. Their chest clear of the obstruction for the first time, they begin gasping for air like a newborn.

[Aedilred]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves, First Tier Atrium

Well dressed men and ladies scattered or stood in paralyzed horror, not knowing what direction would prove safe from the beast's random thrashing. It up turned couches and tables and ruined wall drapes with slashes of its mighty claws.

Blind to its surroundings, the beast and rider began hurtling into the couch moment's ago occupied by Alden Briarcroft, Everly Sinclair, and Senna Clark.

Sunyer paused for only a moment before the obvious course of action presented itself. His hand had instinctively leapt to his waist anyway as soon as the beast had appeared.

"Protect the king!" he shouted loudly, drew his sword and leapt forward to engage the beast and the brute grappling with it.

Wherever the guards were, and however this had been allowed to happen, somebody still needed to stop this, and it would do him no harm to be seen to be the first. He did rather hope that the king's men and the rest of those armed would come to his assistance, however, as he had some doubt about how effective a single smallsword would be under the circumstances.

[Minescratcher]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves, First Tier Atrium

"Protect the king!"

Regor jumped sideways as the beast crashed into the Atrium and the strange, apparently drowning man rolled onto the floor. He seriously doubted that his own sword, good as it was, would do much against a creature so strong. He had a different plan in mind.

As the tiger continued to thrash about, he snapped his fingers, then flicked his right hand forward as if throwing something. One end of a rope soared through the confusion, looping around the tiger's neck before returning to Regor's other hand. He knotted the ends together and began to pull the creature backwards, towards the Atrium exit.

"Guards, would you help over here? This isn't exactly a one-man job."

The nearest two guards, seemingly relieved not to have to face the tiger directly, joined him. One also began to pull, while the other held the beast at bay, preventing it from turning to attack Regor and the first guard. The tiger began to slowly slide backwards out of the Atrium.

[Mary_Sue]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves

Well dressed men and ladies scattered or stood in paralyzed horror, not knowing what direction would prove safe from the beast's random thrashing. It up turned couches and tables and ruined wall drapes with slashes of its mighty claws.

Blind to its surroundings, the beast and rider began hurtling into the couch moment's ago occupied by Alden Briarcroft, Everly Sinclair, and Senna Clark.

Sunyer paused for only a moment before the obvious course of action presented itself. His hand had instinctively leapt to his waist anyway as soon as the beast had appeared.

"Protect the king!" he shouted loudly, drew his sword and leapt forward to engage the beast and the brute grappling with it.

Senna snorted from behind the duke and muttered about kings and ambitious cousins. She fumbled in her purse which seemed to hold a surprising amount of objects that were not coins. She ignored the powders and darts and pulled out a small stick that had been wrapped in charcloth. She sat and stuck the unwrapped end between her knees and struck her firesteel until it was aflame. She stood and held it out to Everly,

"There you are dear. You really should keep one with you. For... emergencies." She looked on the chaotic scene with a frown.

"Goodness, this really is too much."

[PepperP.]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves

"There you are dear. You really should keep one with you. For... emergencies." She looked on the chaotic scene with a frown.

"Goodness, this really is too much."

"You're so clever. However, I am uncertain that a flaming tiger would improve our current lot." Everly took the tiny flame with a grateful smile.

"Besides, this dress doesn't exactly leave a lot of room for stashing things. I could barely find room for my dagger." She waved the small, silver blade for emphasis.

"In any case, it seems Mr. Regor has the tiger under control." Her face shared the surprise in her voice as she watched the unassuming man wrangle the tiger out through the atrium.

[Nefarion Xid]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves, First Tier

Initially more annoyed with the continued pandemonium, Briarcroft poured the last half-flute of wine down his throat and glared coldly at the tiger, the crazy man attempting to ride or subdue the tiger, and the naked, wet man who'd managed to clamber up the wall from the arena floor and flopped over the balustrade like a dead fish. He still made a token attempt as chivalry and interposed himself between Senna and the danger with one arm out.

It was then Briarcroft remembered he had two hundred milligrams of white vervain concentrate clawing its way through his veins, effectively poisoning him as fast as his supernatural nature could repair the damage. Next he remembered that he had made a valiant and successful effort to abstain from human blood for nearly six months now. His skin hadn't the range to grow more pale, but the sensation occurred all the same. How did humans tolerate being this fragile? How could they possibly risk their delicate, short lives in the name of heroism?

In a practiced motion, he dashed his wine glass against the railing, transforming it into a makeshift punching dagger. Subtly as he was able, he attempted to lock eyes with the tiger during the fray and wordlessly commanded the creature's simple mind to flee instead of fight.

"I'm certain his Majesty is well secured! We should, em ... stay here?" He glanced down over the balustrade, certain he'd break an ankle if he jumped. "I think they're managing the beast."

[Mary_Sue]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves

"You're so clever. However, I am uncertain that a flaming tiger would improve our current lot." Everly took the tiny flame with a grateful smile.

"Oh my, I suppose you are right. I did bet on the tiger, after all." Senna grinned ruefully but her smile quickly faded as she spied the wet, naked man lying against the baulstrade.

"This is quite irregular." A small pout pursed her lips and she was very close to stomping her foot in frustration.

"Really, who is in charge here?" She pushed gently past the duke's protective arm and approached the half-drowned man cautiously.

"Pardon me, are you a criminal?" She caught herself.

"One of the alleged criminals, that is? If you are, I shall have to report you to the proper authorities. I do hope you understand." She looked around for the proper authorities, but all seemed otherwise occupied at the moment.

[TheDarkDM]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves

The man's face was scarred with pockmarks, likely the result of a childhood brush with some illness. Whatever luck helped him survive that, however, failed him when he tried to grab Molly from behind. His chin shattered beneath a blow from the iron knuckledusters she had retrieved from somewhere, before her free hand grabbed hold of his collar and sent him tumbling over the railing overlooking the lower seats. He vanished from sight with a burbling scream, and Molly turned to assess the situation.

The panic of the commons had evolved into a more nuanced riot. Some still sought to escape, with more than a few poor wretches trampled underfoot, but many more had turned to looting and opportunism. Some of the less committed mob had turned and joined the exodus when the tiger's roar had echoed up from below, but most remained intent on stripping the Graves and its audience of whatever valuables could be found. And that was only what Molly could see - in the darkened corners of the arena, she had no doubt that viler crimes were being committed. But she had problems of her own. No sooner had the furred man appeared than the looters around her and the armored stranger decided they must be defending something of value. Now, they were well and truly surrounded by almost two dozen increasingly crazed toughs, wielding concealed or improvised weapons. Two men with broken bottles in hand charged the furred man, while an enormously fat member of the mob seemed intent on wrestling the armor off of her new friend. For Molly's part, the man that had tumbled over the edge was replaced by a man and a woman with equally jagged tattoos along their jaw, symbolizing some gang she couldn't be bothered to remember. They edged closer with knives drawn, and Molly twirled her gifted blade between her fingers. She knew by now she wasn't getting paid, but this was coming close to allaying her disappointment.

"Say, you two want to get a drink when this is all over?"

[DoomHat]

As the tiger stormed forward it collided past the sudden appearance of a naked man, and was rope lassoed from behind by the short rotund figure of Regor Harland. At the same moment, subtly as he was able, Alden Briarcroft attempted to lock eyes with the tiger during the fray and wordlessly commanded the creature's simple mind to flee instead of fight.

Two other men had joined Regor in pulling the tiger back, all while the beast was overcome with a desperate need to flee Alden's presence. It twisted away from him and attempted to dart toward the path of least resistance, the sudden change in course potentially jerking the three men off balance.

Just then Sunyer Berengueler lunged his sword into the beast's flank as he called out, "Protect the king!".

It immediately retaliated with a heavy swipe of its claw, flight having given way again fight.

"HEY!" shouted Hoss Bravo, angrily from the tiger's back, "Get your own! I'm trying to get this boy in the arena where we belong!!"

He spared a hand to quickly point at the arena visa just a rail ahead.

With renewed rage, the tiger now turned on the source of the rope digging into its neck, pouncing at Regor and company.

[hi-mi-tsu]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves

People were getting a bit antsy for the activities to start - even if the warm-up was just a fight between mercenary companies, it was still action, good for drinking to and cheering on.

Finishing off her pastry, she tilted her head as the...satyr? Really? I didn't think those existed... entered the ring. The theatrics of his announcement made her smile.

The theatrics of his illusions, however, did not. The smile vanished as the screaming started behind her, commonfolk leaping from their seats, rushing around in a blind panic. While this sort of grandiose magic might be common among the wealthy (she wasn't sure, as she wasn't wealthy), and she'd seen enough traveling and being a mercenary to not completely lose her head, even she felt a clutch of fear at her throat as water enveloped her, as what looked like the fires of Hell opened up beneath the arena, as madness erupted.

Then, almost as soon as the show began, it was over. Solid ground reappeared, the comforting familiarity of stone stands and a normal skyline. But it wasn't enough. The terror had struck - and with it, opportunists. Even amongst the middling stands, merchants and guildmembers sought to leave. Several people were already unconscious, having either knocked themselves out in panic or gotten into fights with those around them, and the chaos only grew worse as one ascended into the commoner stands.

Thank the gods above and below that I brought my sword.

" So, what did I miss?"

Nespira drew her weapon instinctively, spinning to the voice; her tense posture relaxed, slightly, seeing the pastry-seller from before, and a hint of a smile touched her lips.

"Oh, you know. An ill-advised show of power that's caused mass panic." Taking in his bloodstained hands, she frowned. "You seem to have experienced some of it already. I'm..." She wavered, uncertain. Pragmatism told her to head for nobility; they'd be the ones with the coin to express gratitude, should she save them and get them out of here in one piece. But...

"I'm headed up. I might cause more panic, looking like I do, but there's people in those stands with children who might be in trouble. And there's others who might be looking to steal anything not nailed down, and commonfolk have little enough without worrying about losing it."

She smiled again, but anger was in her eyes at the thought of innocents being injured for a coin or some bread. It was never right. And this sort of madness only harmed the weakest.

"Care to come with?"

[Dorizzit]

"Pardon me, are you a criminal?" She caught herself.

"One of the alleged criminals, that is? If you are, I shall have to report you to the proper authorities. I do hope you understand." She looked around for the proper authorities, but all seemed otherwise occupied at the moment.

The individual pushes up off of the ground, finally getting their breathing under control.

Criminal...? Criminal...wrongdoer. Law breaker. Laws...rules. Obligations. Punishment against those who break them. Am I...? I was...trapped. But not by these people.

A name flares into their mind, a surge of anger not far behind.

Sanctum.

While this processes, the stranger just stares blankly at her before their eyes refocus and they shake their head in response.

"N-n-n-n-no. I...I am..."

They break off into a coughing fit. More sea water leaks from their lips.

"No-o-o-ot cri...crimimi...c...that."

Whoever they are, they clearly aren't used to speaking.

[Rolepgeek]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves

"...check for tigers that way! Leave one for me if you find them first!" shouted Hoss, waving at their retreating figures happily.

As Andon returned to his senses, such as they were, he was able to realize that the other prisoners were fleeing. He didn't really understand why; with the armored clothing, himself newly rejuvenated, and this Bravo character who was apparently blessed by the gods, they were unlikely to get a better chance to prove their innocence in the eyes of the law. This was, technically, a trial after all. If they were caught again, he suspected they would be executed with less room for chance.

But that was their issue. The Lord of Chains would keep them bound, or not, as He pleased. May our bonds grant us strength... The prayer was an afterthought, but Andon really did hope that they turned out alright, and found their way to Faelkas. Or any of the gods, really. And from what he could see developing outside, Hoss had found himself some trouble.

At least he thought it was Hoss. The man was clad in what appeared to be five layers of armor, from Andon's warped perspective. The brother wasn't exactly unused to this, but distinguishing the effects of the magic coursing through his system from reality was often harder than it seemed. For instance, Hoss Bravo appeared to be riding a small dragon, as two men covered head to toe with hempen rope and a grossly proportioned man with an upside down face tried to wrangle the beast with chains made of wood, near where Andon presumed the stands were, as an ocean of people writhed above, slowly receding like an inverted tide.

Shattered stone, this was a harsh one. Still, it seemed likely they needed help, as four people attempted to wrangle the beast. The portcullis Hoss and the others had used to escape was already shut again, but the guard was starting to get up. Hoping they could see reason, Andon addressed the man, offering a hand through the bars to help him to his feet. "I serve as Champion to Victor Hollister. You have no fear of my fleeing the field, but will you let me into the arena, to aid against the tiger now loose in the crowd?" He asked the man, picking up the spear. The guard looked confused for a moment before nodding, rubbing his head where it had been smashed against the portcullis, and began shouting for the gate to be opened.

As soon as it was high enough for him to roll under, Andon slid underneath the spiked tips of the metal gate, spear in hand. As the champion came to his feet, he looked again towards the dragon, and saw it pouncing upon the upside-down faced man, spouting flames. And besides them, a skeletal figure in a red shirt and pants with a rusted chain around his neck and fire for eyes, wielding a dagger made of glass, as well as a man clothed in shadows and silk, and two women in fine gowns; one with a heart burning bright enough to show through her chest, the other with a crown of curving silver needles. And last...he could not force himself to look at the last one, no matter his efforts. It mattered little, in any case.

Andon rushed for the area, bringing the captured spear around and planting it butt first in the ground as he neared the edge of the arena's wall, jumping with as much force forward and up as he could in the process. The spear bent, but did not break, and as he rose it flung him up into the edge of the wall, his hands reaching for purpose, before he finally was able to drag himself over, and jump for the back legs of the tiger.

"Hoss! Help me remove this beast back into the arena, if you can!" He shouted as he struggled to avoid getting a face full of tiger claw.

[Mary_Sue]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves, First Tier

While this processes, the stranger just stares blankly at her before their eyes refocus and they shake their head in response.

"N-n-n-n-no. I...I am..."

They break off into a coughing fit. More sea water leaks from their lips.

"No-o-o-ot cri...crimimi...c...that."

Whoever they are, they clearly aren't used to speaking.

Senna reflexively ducked as a body landed heavily upon the canopy above them and bounced over the edge of the baulstrade and into the arena. Her wide eyes took in the tiger who had turned around to menace Harland again, and then back to the individual who lay before her.

"Evie, would you come here please? And bring your knife."

[PepperP.]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves, First Tier

Everly had nearly set the newcomer aflame but managed to stop herself as she saw he was going for the tiger and not them. Her attention turned back to Senna who was standing near the naked person.

"Evie, would you come here please? And bring your knife."

"Do you really think he needs stabbing?" Everly looked on with something like pity. Her mind had defaulted to the male pronouns as she took in the bald head.

"He doesn't really look like a threat at the moment." She seemed reluctant to stab a person while they lay prone on the ground and wretched.

[Nefarion Xid]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves, First Tier

"Ladies!" Briarcroft sighed through the exclamation, having clearly lost what little control he might have imagined he had over the situation. "Do leave him be. He's clearly drunk!"

He glanced mournfully over the railing to look at the man who'd bounced off the canopy and landed on his neck.

"Bit of sun's good for everyone, my lord!" he hissed, mocking the words of his butler barely an hour prior.

[Mary_Sue]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves, First Tier

"Do you really think he needs stabbing?" Everly looked on with something like pity. Her mind had defaulted to the male pronouns as she took in the bald head.

"He doesn't really look like a threat at the moment." She seemed reluctant to stab a person while they lay prone on the ground and wretched.

"Ladies!" Briarcroft sighed through the exclamation, having clearly lost what little control he might have imagined he had over the situation. "Do leave him be. He's clearly drunk!"

"No no! I don't want them stabbed, gracious!" Senna looked quite shocked by the idea. She managed to compose herself and took Everly's dagger from her. She chose a floating silk panel from the skirt of her gown and cut it away from the rest of her dress, the blade sliding through the thin fabric easily. She handed the knife back to her friend and covered the nude figure with the cloth.

"I think they are ill, not drunk. Or at least very nearly drowned. And still not drunk. Probably." She looked down at the pitiful person.

"There now, I will get an attendant to call for the doctor." She looked around at their surroundings.

"That is, once an attendant is available for fetching."

[woolli264]

Sunday Morning
The Salt Graves, common seats

"Say, you two want to get a drink when this is all over?"

"A drink would be lovely." Little Bear said. He was put off that the event was going so poorly. It would probably be cancelled or at least postponed. Oh well, there were other, more pressing matters to deal with at the moment.

Though he had just sat down Little Bear placed his bag between his legs, rolled up his sleeves and stood, roaring with the might of a ferocious beast while flexing his considerable muscles. The two men wielding broken bottles slowed their approach briefly but soon remembered the difference in numbers and continued their advance faster than before.

Little Bear watched the two men closely as they began to charge towards him, one was lowering his shoulder and the other seemed to be readying his bottle for a strike. The first collided with Little Bears stomach and was promptly grabbed by the hips and lifted, kicking and flailing his broken bottle, into the air. The man had closed his eyes in fear but could hear a great roar of exertion followed by a sudden acceleration and slight cooling as he left the violent embrace of the hypertrycotic man. He felt a thud, heard a grunt of pain and went tumbling, opening his eyes just long enough to see that he was entwined with his fellow attacker as they tumbled down the steps of the arena.

Then his head cracked against something hard and his world went dark.

Little Bear meanwhile had retrieved his axe from his bag and was ready for more. He shouted to the encircling thieves, gangsters and other opportunists, "Which of you red faced flower girls is next?"

[Minescratcher]

Sunday Morning
Salt Graves, First Tier Atrium

The tiger turned towards Regor, growling as it smacked the guard trying to hold it off and sent him tumbling into the wall. The other guard stumbled and lost his grip on the rope, leaving Regor and the tiger in the middle of the Atrium.

"HEY! Get your own! I'm trying to get this boy in the arena where we belong!!"

"Hoss! Help me remove this beast back into the arena, if you can!"

"Hoss Bravo, I presume?" Regor shouted over the din. "If you take this beast over the railing, you'll" - he barely ducked another swipe - "You'll hurt the nobles and probably kill him and yourself! Listen to your friend and help get him down properly!" Regor continued his efforts to drag the tiger out, towards the passageway which would bring it down without risking anyone's life. The job was made all the easier now that the tiger seemed to want to follow him, at least until Hoss' friend wrapped himself around the beast's back legs.

"Argh, I'll feel this in the morning...