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