Open Chronicles The Grand Tournament of Tides

[Beatrice Orabela]

A look of bemusement settled onto Beatrice's features.
As described each one in turn the council member's faces turned more and more grim.
She alone seemed to utter an amused snort.

Her gift was really quite quaint. If anything much like the other gifts she wondered if it had been designed to provoke her into attempting to learn the bearers identity. With such showy tactics it seemed a teasing prelude to a declaration. Cryptic hints and riddles were her specialty after all, how could such words not draw her interest. Who ever it was, seemed to know just enough to hint at knowing more.

Perhaps that was the merit of her isolation and her apathy. Or perhaps whoever had laid out these devious gifts understood her neutrality better than most.
Beatrice knew enough of her fellow council members to know that the gifts presented were unsettling at best and an outright threat more likely. During her time as 'Beatrice' she had never seen them sweat in this manner.
She gathered not just any war barking at the gates would have caused these types of pauses. These were personal indeed.
Her eyes drifted to Lord Iskandar with consideration.
There the absence of his reaction spoke more than anything.
She knew him least well of the members but her impression had been that he held an unshakeable poise of double speak. To see him biting his tongue did not go unnoticed.

The final gift to be announced by the footman was the last nail in the coffin it seemed, confirming these were indeed threats of some manner.
Lord Iskandar set back into motion and the footman dismissed.
It seemed once again the Lord Commander had earned his keep as well.

Beatrice replied with a haughty tone of challenge.
"I'm sure we are all very keen to learn the root of these antics. Such a quaint gift makes a fine late Nameday present. I should quite like to provide such a mind a personal extension of my gratitude."
She folded her fan and thumped it against her palm a few times in thought.
"They will have to emerge from their shadows sooner or latter if they intend to make good on such threats."
Then as if more speaking to herself she added.
"The question is how to draw them out. Unless of course they have more planned for today's gathering."

It was a very convenient way to get a few birds with one stone. Unlike the others, her weakness was also her strength. It was not possible to challenge her without her advantage. If they intended to invade her house, let them try. Had she not already invited such a thing?

Darkweaver
Petrus Ritus Iskandar

 

[Darkweaver]

"But given the particulars of his report and the game of subterfuge they seem to be playing..... I doubt that will be their appearance for long."

"Perhaps it would be the better decree to close the tournament," Nerod said. "And ensure everyone's safety."

"On that I must disagree," Tel'vore replied. "We cannot afford to show weakness in the face of some errant letters. If we cave in, we play into their hand. Surely our Watch must be able to locate them?"

"Alliria is a city of thousands of souls. You may as well attempt to locate a fish in the sea," Catherine muttered.

Beatrice replied with a haughty tone of challenge.
"I'm sure we are all very keen to learn the root of these antics. Such a quaint gift makes a fine late Nameday present. I should quite like to provide such a mind a personal extension of my gratitude."
She folded her fan and thumped it against her palm a few times in thought.
"They will have to emerge from their shadows sooner or latter if they intend to make good on such threats."
Then as if more speaking to herself she added.
"The question is how to draw them out. Unless of course they have more planned for today's gathering."

"Draw them out, that's it!" Ormvel snapped his fingers, still flush with agitation. "We must lure them into a trap of our own! But, ah, I should like to investigate this casket personally . . . perhaps I may be able to uncover a clue towards that endeavour."

Estrenna shot him a quick, warning glare. He shook his head, not willing to fully exchange the eye-contact, seeking to leave in a speedy huff.

"I imagine they do, Lady Orabela," Estrenna said. "They would not go this far for mere empty threats. We should bolster the Watch with our own agents. Begin questioning those who look out of sorts." A smirk slithered onto her features, turning for Petrus. "I trust especially you to have more than capable agents, do you not?"

Estrenna often loved to intimate knowledge where she didn't have anything but specuiation, and cluelessness where she did possess it. As such, she was ever known as a chameleon of lore in the council, keeping everyone guessing as to the full extent of her webs.

Petrus Ritus Iskandar

Beatrice

 

[Marek]

Marek opened his mouth, already winding up a smart-mouthed reply, and then Anja cut in.

Whatever he’d been about to say evaporated. He shut his mouth with a faint click and glanced at her instead, catching the look she gave him. For half a second, he just stared, like he was seeing her properly for the first time. He gave her a half grin, appreciative for her heads up.

She was also…easy on the eyes.

Nope. Bad instinct. Abort.

His gaze snapped back to Sam, the stern one, the one with the posture of someone who’d break his arm and then explain why it was his fault.

“I will absolutely take that free drink,” he blurted, a little too eagerly, nodding once as if afraid the offer might vanish if he hesitated.

He fell into step with them as they moved through the crowd and toward the tavern just beyond the festival square. The noise of the arena faded, replaced by the warmer, rougher din of voices and clinking cups.

They’d barely stepped inside before someone near the bar scoffed.

“He better have coin if he’s drinkin’ here.”

Marek bristled instantly. His shoulders tensed, jaw tightening as he shot a sharp look in the speaker’s direction before forcing himself to look away. The reaction was automatic. It was clear enough he was known here, and not fondly.

He pretended not to notice, instead seizing on Sam’s question like a rope thrown to a drowning man.

“Training?” he scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. “Nah.” He flashed a lopsided grin, all bravado and bravely held together confidence. “Raw talent,” he said. “All instinct. Born with it, I guess.”

Inside, his stomach dropped.

Training. Gods. His life had been scraping by, running fast, hitting first, and doing whatever it took to eat tomorrow. No masters. No forms. Just survival.

Anja’s presence lingered at the edge of his awareness and he very deliberately did not look back at her again.

He leaned against the bar instead, flexing the fingers of his burned hand under the table. “Why?” he added lightly, glancing at Sam. “You askin’ because you’re impressed… or because you’re about to tell me everything I did wrong?”

Samantha Black

 

[Samantha Black]

"I see..." replied the Lieutenant. Rather, she had seen. From what little she'd been able to view, the boy did have a talent for good intuition in a fight, but he'd been reactive. A tactic that relied heavily on luck and wouldn't get him very far if he intended to keep competing. Or surviving against stronger and more experienced opponents.

His lopsided confidence earned him a brow raise of amusement at the very least. He had gusto, that much was true, and that was half the battle in the making of a good fighter.

Sam took up a seat at the bar, her own presence at the very least seeming to ease the distaste of the boy's. They didn't know her, but she looked like she had coin to spare and that was more than enough to placate the sourpusses.

"What'll ye have?" ask the barkeep as he sidled over.

"Your Summer ale," the woman replied, glancing to her younger female companion as Anja carefully settled onto her stool. Anja didn't partake in alcohol so... "and one of your local ciders for her."

"Sour or sweet?"

"...sweet," Sam smiled warmly to Anja, lifting a gloved hand to pat at one of her delicate own before shifting her attention back to Marek as he asked after her intentions. The woman brushed loose, dark hair from her face, "Not my place to critique your form. And I wouldn't offer it if it wasn't valued knowledge, otherwise it's just a waste of my time and breath... whatever he's getting is on me," she said aside to the barkeep with a nod to Marek before eyeing him again with a dubiously pointed brow, "Do you want to know what you did wrong?"

Anja produced one of her new books from her shoulderbag and began to read with seemingly no issue for all the immediate distractions.

 

[Marek]

When the barkeep looked his way, Marek didn’t even glance at the list.

“Elf-blood sour,” he said easily. Then he grinned to himself, just a little, eyes flicking sideways toward Sam, not challenging, not smug, just testing the water. A quiet guess at where she was from based on her accent.

He exhaled again when her question came back around, the humor draining out of him in stages. “What I did wrong?” he echoed, then snorted softly. “I signed up for a fight where some chump with deep pockets gets shiny toys, and everyone pretends that’s talent."

He shook his head once, jaw tight, and finally lifted his injured hand. The grin vanished entirely as he set it on the bar. The skin was charred and blistered, blackened in places, the damage ugly and undeniable. He flexed his fingers once, then let them rest.

For the first time since they’d started talking, Marek didn’t posture. He didn’t joke. He didn’t dodge. He looked at Sam then, really looked at her, and lowered his voice.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “Go on. What could I have done differently?”

There was something almost defiant in the way he asked it, like he was bracing for a blow and refusing to flinch first.

Samantha Black

 

[Samantha Black]

"Trained," she said flatly, the word punctuated by the sound of her drink being plunked on the bar before her. Sam let the simplicity of the answer marinate for a moment as she took up the flagon and gave it a test sip, gaze lingering on his burnt hand.

Punchy. Aromatic. Smooth on the tongue. The ale, not his hand. Just like she remembered it from her last visit. The flavor alone brought some rather... harrowing memories to mind.

"But I suspect you don't have many options for it..." Alliria certainly wasn't known for its militia and its landed gentry and Knights weren't especially affluent in the art of true battle. No wonder the city nearly fell in a day to an encroaching hoard of orcs from the Kalit a few years ago.

Vel Anir would never.

Her eyes followed the progress of a smaller wooden cup being carefully placed before Anja who, in turn, looked up at the bartender as if she were a cat and he'd presented her with a bowl of cream. The older man donned a dopey, paternal look, found himself caught by the Lieutenant, and promptly cleared his throat.

Marek's drink was put down so hastily it slopped across the counter. Sam gave a muted chuckle in response, briefly taken by the thought of what the boy had done to deserve such disdain. A sneak thief, perhaps. Or simply a rabble rouser.

"I'd wager with some real training, you could have won that match in less than ten seconds." She took a gulp in earnest this time, savoring the seasonal flavor without haste.

 

[Marek]

Marek scoffed outright. He lifted the glass and took a long, defiant swig of the elf-blood sour, wincing faintly as it burned its way down. “Yeah? And who the hell’s gonna train me? The tax collectors?” He let out a short, humorless huff. “City watch?”

The words came easy at first, sharp and dismissive, like armor he’d worn a long time.

Then he paused.

The noise of the tavern faded a notch as the rest of what she’d said caught up to him. Real training. Less than ten seconds. He stared into his cup, thumb tracing the rim once, then slowly, turned his head to look at her.

Really look at her. At the posture. The confidence. The way she sat like the room adjusted around her instead of the other way around.

“…Who,” he said again, more quietly this time, brow knitting as the thought formed against his will. He swallowed, then finished the question, eyes locked on her now. “Who…would train me?”

Samantha Black

 

[Samantha Black]

"Who indeed..." her gaze did not immediately look back at him as she took another slow swig of her summer ale. A moment passed as Sam leaned over toward Anja who had already devoured several dozen pages of her new book in silence, and gently nudged the cup of cider toward her.

"Try it, I think you'll like that."

Anja's matching frosted gaze peered over the top of her book at the cup, "I thought it was alcohol?"

"No," Sam smiled easily, "it's like a ... juice."

Anja then rather suddenly slapped a hard stare at Marek and his own drink as she leaned forward to sniff at her cup, "Are you truly drinking elf's blood?"

The Lieutenant laughed at that but Anja maintained an unwavering look of pointed concern.

 

[Marek]

Marek shot Sam a sideways look when she didn’t answer him, brow lifting just a fraction.

“Well,” he said dryly, “whoever it is, I’m guessing I can’t afford their fees.” He snorted under his breath and took another sip. “Unless they take payment in bad decisions and near-death experiences.”

Then Anja spoke.

Marek turned toward her without thinking, the edge of his mouth already tipping into a grin. “Well,” he said lightly, lifting the glass a touch, “if I’ve got you fussing about what I’m drinking, I must be doing something right.”

The grin lingered for half a moment, then he remembered Sam was right there.

His eyes flicked back to the lieutenant so fast it was almost comical. He cleared his throat, the sound a little too loud, and immediately found his drink fascinating. Absolutely riveting. He stared down into it like the secrets of the universe might be swirling at the bottom.

“Just-uh,” he muttered, swirling the glass. “Good drink. Very… drink.”

He took another careful sip, posture suddenly immaculate, as if sitting up straight might somehow keep him from being murdered on the spot.

Samantha Black

 

[Aevrin Thistledown]

Aevrin Thistledown did not enter the tavern so much as arrive, as if the room had collectively decided there was space for him now and shifted a fraction to allow it. He leaned in the doorway first, bells quiet, posture loose and almost careless, eyes already on Marek like a physician examining a bruise that hadn’t finished blooming yet. The smell reached him before the sight did -- burned magic, cheap alcohol, pride curdled into frustration -- and it made his smile thin just a touch. He watched the way Marek held his glass, the way his injured hand was kept close but not hidden, like a confession he hadn’t meant to make aloud.

“Ah,” Aevrin said eventually, voice slipping into the air between words already spoken, long and winding and unhurried, “there it is. That sound.” He tilted his head, listening not to the tavern but to Marek himself, the echo left behind by lightning that had never asked permission before tearing through him. “That hollow little rattle people get when they’ve survived something impressive and still can’t decide if it counts as winning.” He stepped closer, not crowding, never quite invading, just close enough to be undeniably there. “You fought like someone who expects the world to be unfair and prepares for it anyway, which is admirable, tragic, and terribly inefficent all at once.”

He let his gaze drift, briefly, to the bar, to the woman with the soldier’s posture and the girl with the book, then back to Marek again as if nothing else in the room truly mattered. “You asked who would train you,” Aevrin continued, folding his hands behind his back, rocking slightly on his heels like this was all terribly amusing. “And everyone pretended not to hear the more important part of that question, which is what they would train you into. Obedience? Restraint? Clean little forms that work beautifully right up until someone breaks the rules and puts a knife where the lesson didn’t account for it?” He laughed softly, the sound warm and sharp in equal measure. “No, no. That would never suit you. You’re not a vessel, you’re a crack.”

Aevrin leaned closer now, lowering his voice, not conspiratorial but intimate in the way of someone stating an unpleasant truth with great fondness. “I’m here because moments like yours leave fingerprints, and I happen to collect them. Because you’re standing in that delightful place where instinct has carried you as far as it can, and control is starting to look less like surrender and more like survival.” He glanced at Marek’s hand again, eyes bright. “You didn’t lose because you reached too far. You lost because you didn’t know how to hold what answered you.”

He straightened, smile returning in full, sharp and playful and entirely untrustworthy. “So here’s my offer, Marek, and do try to listen carefully because I despise repeating myself. I won’t train you in the way soldiers mean it. I won’t sand down your edges or teach you how to beg power politely. I’ll show you how to keep it from tearing you apart when it decides you’re interesting again.” A pause, deliberate. “In return, I ask for honesty, effort, and the occasional favor when the road twists in ways you didn’t expect. Nothing so crude as ownership. Just… participation.”

His eyes met Marek’s fully now, unblinking, delighted. “Think on it. You can keep bleeding in public and calling it talent, or you can learn why the lightning came at all. I’ll be around,” Aevrin added lightly, already turning away, “and you strike me as the sort who hates unanswered questions almost as much as he hates being pitied.”

Marek

 

[Samantha Black]

“Well,” he said dryly, “whoever it is, I’m guessing I can’t afford their fees.” He snorted under his breath and took another sip. “Unless they take payment in bad decisions and near-death experiences.”

A rueful chuckle from the Lieutenant echoed into her mug as she moved to take another drink. He certainly wanted his answers fast. If only he'd take a moment to consider his company, the boy might just find that they fell into his lap. At the very least he wasn't dismissive of training, instead just pessimistic about the prospect of opportunity. Hard knocks likely taught him that. She could empathize.

His words to Anja got a look from Sam, but no further action. Much as she was like to be the younger woman's shield in every aspect that mattered, Sam had not been brought up to believe that experience was a bad thing. In the girl's naivete from such a sheltered and abusive life, Anja's curiosity and lack of compunction would not be anything she sought to quash.

"Does it taste like blood?" Anja said at length, having taken a moment to consider Marek's response without any care of his odd mannerisms toward her.

"I'm fairly certain it's named after-" a noise sounded from the entrance of the tavern that speared through the overarching din with purpose to their intimate little discussion. The Dreadlord narrowed her gaze, casting a sidelong glance in the direction of the odd man who had rather rudely interjected, "...the color."

Her lips pressed together and did not part again while the strange fellow lapsed into a monologue as if on stage, expecting all the world to stop and listen.

Sam felt her younger sister lean toward her, preparing to ask something, and gestured for her to hold on the thought while the words went on.

And on.

And on.

And goodness... just kept going.

Oh, there we go, a departure.

Her frigid gaze followed his leave for a moment before flickering back to Marek, "Another round, I think... not for you," her eyes landed on Anja's cup that had yet to be touched before she downed the rest of her summer ale and knocked her flagon on the bar for the barkeep's attention. When the man walked over she signaled for another round with a twirling of her pointer finger in the air and a motion to their two mugs.

"What is it you want to do with ...all of that-" Sam next gestured at all of him vaguely. Just a very generalized what do you want to be when you grow up?

 

[Marek]

Marek turned back to Anja, already lifting his glass. “It’s not actually elf-” he started to say, and then some random man walked in and proceeded to unload a monologue like the tavern had paid admission.

Marek froze mid-sentence.

He stared. Open-mouthed. Blinking once. Then again. His gaze tracked the man as he talked and talked and talked, eyes slowly narrowing not in suspicion but in pure, unfiltered confusion.

Is he trying to put a spell on me? Am I getting sleepy?

By the time the stranger finally drifted off, Marek was still sitting there, silent, glass hovering near his mouth like he’d forgotten what it was for.

Sam ordered another round.

Marek turned to her slowly and jerked a thumb back toward the door the man had exited through. His brow furrowed. “…did he just call me a crack?” he asked, baffled. He paused, thinking it over. “I don’t even know what that means.”

Then the new drink arrived, and whatever existential crisis had been forming took a backseat. Marek brightened immediately, took a grateful sip, and sighed.

“Ah. Right. That helps.” At Sam’s question, he shrugged, the movement tired rather than dismissive. He had never been asked that before, so he pondered for a moment before answering truthfully. “I’m just… done,” he said, quieter now. “Done living like tomorrow’s always a problem I’ve got to punch my way through.” He rolled the glass between his fingers. “I want somewhere to belong. Somewhere I can actually use what I was born with. Get better at it. Become someone. Not just scrape by.”

He glanced up at her, studying her properly for the first time, not as an authority, not as a threat, but as a person who might actually listen.

“…and I’ve been rude,” he added after a pause. He set the glass down and extended his uninjured hand across the bar. “Marek.” He gave a polite nod to Anja as well.

A crooked smile tugged at his mouth as he looked back at Sam. “And you’re Anirian, right?” he added, nodding toward her. “I know the accent. Don’t think I’ve met many folks from there.”

Samantha Black

 

[Aevrin Thistledown]

Aevrin hadn’t even bothered to leave this time. He remained near the doorway, half-leaning, half-posing, like the tavern itself had been built to frame him there. When Samantha’s question landed -- sharp, practical, meant for Marek alone -- his smile widened just a touch, pleased in the way of someone who’d been silently waiting for his cue.

“Oh, that?” he cut in lightly, tilting his head toward Marek without quite looking at him. “He wants the same thing everyone like him does. To stop being reactive and start being inevitable.” A small laugh slipped out, soft and self-satisfied, as if that settled the matter neatly enough. “Messy talent, loud instincts, too much fire and not enough patience. It’s all very obvious, once you know how to look.”

He straightened, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve, gaze finally flicking to Samantha with an air of polite condescension. “You’re wondering what he’ll become. I’m only pointing out that he already is something, he just hasn’t learned to wear it properly yet.” Aevrin smiled again, sharp and pleased with himself. “And before anyone worries, no -- I’m not here to fix him. I merely noticed him. That tends to happen when people stand out.”

With that, he leaned back against the doorframe, expression smug and perfectly at ease, as if the conversation might continue or end entirely on his terms and either outcome would amuse him just fine.

Professional talker, eh?

Then he turned towards Marek again. "Well, maybe he'll figure it out, or maybe he won't. I'm not leaving either way!" They didn't know his alias yet. That meant he had all the power to stay where he was. For now.

Samantha Black
Marek

 

[Veshli Xor]

Veshli had listened in silence to this whole exchange, feet on her table. The jester must be lacking work, she decided, to he pestering strangers at length with his thespian arts. Now she lowered her mug and wiped her face with the back of her hand.

"Oy, bell-head," she called out, when her interest had dwindled sufficiently before boredom. "Can't ye perform some tricks instead? Juggle some mugs, shoot fire outta your arse or summin'?" She snapped her fingers as an idea struck her, pointing at him. "Dance, that's it! Sure coppers will come a-flying if you flail your legs about."

Aevrin Thistledown