• Closed • Obie, Sophia, and the Whiskey Barbarian

[Natalia Gregorios]

Arc 721, Zi'da 7

Immediately following When Worlds Collide...

The evening, to that point, had been remarkable. Yes, remarkable was a good word. Unique? Memorable? Those too. People generally didn't enjoy being identified as puzzles for the amusement of others, and Natalia wouldn't stoop to calling them that. Still, she had enjoyed the slightly mysterious, enigmatic aspect of the encounter with Nisha and her band of merry friends.

And then there was Obie.

He was certainly in a cross mood, but something about how he interacted with her, personally, intrigued the young woman. Natalia, to be honest, didn't know what to think of him, and that was saying something. Was it the unfiltered honesty that caught her attention? Maybe.

But right then, there were other things to worry about. Happening upon a scene in the foyer of the inn, Natalia was currently hauling an unconscious server upright, which was a feat considering that the woman was dead weight in that state.

After hearing the story from the screaming one, Natalia followed up with a stern query. "What did the man look like?" Trembling, the woman shook her head, voice unsteady. "I…I don't know. Younger. He had a hood over his head, but I saw this flash of red on his overcoat. Like, a flame, I think. Oh, and he had long blond hair. I think."

Well, there indeed was a lot of 'thinking' in the reply, but it's all Natalia had to go on. Or all they had to go on, as a deep voice came from behind her, inserting himself into the situation. The brunette didn't even need to turn around to know who was there.

A tavern patron came forward, quickly identifying himself as some kind of healer, and took charge of the stricken young server, releasing 'Sophia' from her charge, which was absolutely fine with her because there was an irritable man to deal with.

It was clear from a few of his parting comments in the tavern that Natalia had his attention, whether he wanted to admit it or not. What was less clear was the cause of the interest and how he expressed it. He said he didn't want to talk to her, yet Obie continued to verbally spar when he could have just disengaged or left. Perhaps he liked a challenge as much as she did.

Mah'ludre arrived, issuing the task to catch the suspect. It appeared Obie decided to take him up on it, when unexpectedly, Natalia's moody counterpart stopped and invited her along, prompting an arched eyebrow from the confused visitor to Etzos.

He didn't wait for a reply, or give warning, before tossing her dagger across the expanse of the room. Launching forward, Natalia eyed the weapon and tried to catch it deftly, but at best, it was a clumsy grab. What was he playing at? Now Obie wanted company? Did he even know what he wanted?

They were all excellent questions, but questions she didn't have the time to answer if she wanted to keep up with him – Obie was already out the door.

Muttering to herself, Natalia ran out of the inn and quickly noted her surroundings. Wall to the left, no means of apparent escape. Stables in front of her – an excellent place to hide but something of another dead end. The right was the only way someone could have gone, and it was a reasonable conclusion since she saw Obie's sprinting outline going in that direction. She had only just started her physical training with Grayson and knew it wasn't good enough to keep up with an obviously athletic man. Think Natalia, think.

Just then, she felt something. Adrenaline coursed through her system, muscles tightening and senses heightening. Everyone knew what adrenaline felt like, but in that moment as it took over her, there was an edge to it that felt new. Blood pumping and heart pounding, she simply allowed the hormones to take her where they would, completely unaware that her body's reaction was induced by someone tinkering with her Thrill.

Luck was on her side, or…well, something was on her side, as she took note of an antsy horse and rider departing the stables. A glance confirmed the identity of the rider – Mr.Shitfaced himself, from the tavern. The one that had tried so hard to win her affection in a creepy, slimy, eww and not subtle sort of way, and whom Natalia had chased off with an equally unsubtle, direct manner. However, she needed transportation, and when one door closed…

As she saw it, there were two ways to procure what she needed – play nice or be direct. Natalia didn't have time, nor was inclined, to play nice.

As the man saw her outside the inn, he froze for a moment, halting his steed. Natalia made a quick appraisal of the horse, noting size and frame. Obviously, the animal was more of a workhorse, but still, that would do just fine. The breed was harder to determine but didn't matter much for her purposes.

Approaching the mount swiftly, Natalia barked orders at the drunk man. "Move back in the saddle. I'm coming up." His befuddled mind wasn't operating quickly, and it took the young woman hauling herself up into the front portion of the saddle for him to realize that he had little choice in the matter. Grabbing the reins out of his hand spooked the mount slightly, but a quick stroke of the horse's neck brought him back in control Tranquility’s Reign
Many horses have a wild spirit that is difficult to contain. As the Mortalborn of Horses, Natalia can forge a special connection with any horse. This connection requires her to be able to touch the creature, but once she does, the creature will feel an overwhelming calm come over it. This ability does not extend to any extraordinary ability to riding, although a difficult creature might more easily allow her to mount it, depending on her skills.with the Mortalborn of Horses at the reins. Off like a bolt of lightning, Natalia took off after Obie's almost vanished form, using the dwindling light of twilight and torches to keep track of him.

While her focus was on catching up to her companion, the drunk's focus was on her, deciding that the current turn of events meant she was interested in him after all. Snaking his hands around her waist, he decided to push a bit further before a snarl sounded from her lips, eyes narrowed on the alley in front of them. "You move those hands any further, and I will break every finger you have! Am I clear? This is not an open invitation to be groped."

The drunk's gaze lowered with a pouty, befuddled expression evident. Women. What was one to think when one jumped on your horse and paid no attention to you? "You're rude! You stole my horse!" he exclaimed, the brisk wind of Zi'da doing nothing to snap him out of his intoxicated state.

Rolling her eyes, which were solely focused ahead, Natalia's irritation at being 'saddled' with such baggage was becoming frighteningly clear. "I didn't steal anything. You didn't tell me I couldn't ride your horse. Be quiet!" Technicalities were important.

Obie would hear the fast gallop of a horse coming up behind him, Natalia's eyes peeled for any sign of their wayward quarry. While they were moving quickly, she hoped her elevated position would allow her to see more than Obie would on the ground, but nothing jumped out at her as odd for the moment.

Unbeknownst to Natalia, the smashed man behind her, holding on for dear life, decided to use that moment to take in the stars…that weren't there. It was overcast and cold, and not a flicker of star shone through the gloom. "Ohhhh…the stars are so pretty. Hey, he's not 'posed to be up 'here. Looks like a spider…man. Spiders aren't good." Glancing up swiftly to see what he was rattling on about, Natalia caught a glimpse of a dark figure scrambling up the overgrown ivy on an uneven stone wall above the street. She couldn't be sure, but it looked like a splash of red on the back of the clothing.

"Obie!" There was no time to be secretive or stealthy, at least for her. The figure was moving quickly towards a balcony, just above the main doors of the building. If Obie turned, she'd be there, still astride the horse, pointing up at the figure.

Only then did Natalia take note of their surroundings, more pressing matters having occupied her available attention up to that point. Racing a horse down a city alley, not running anyone over, threatening the appendages of people that wanted to get a little too familiar...

Before them, a long, aging whitestone building sat. In Natalia's opinion, the beautiful stained-glass windows were undoubtedly the highlight of the distinct architecture. However, the current chase didn't allow her to do any more than note where a person could quickly gain access.

In front of the structure, a troupe of oddly dressed people stood, calling out to passersby with animated invitations to come inside, entertaining the random people in the area with song and verse. It was quite the sight to behold, but the young woman's attention was more on the predicament they found themselves in.

It took a few trills, but finally, the location must have registered to Mr. Shitfaced. Natalia heard a gasp from behind her, right before he enthusiastically filled in the blanks to her confused mind. "THE THEATRE!?! I LOVE THE THEATRE!"

Apparently, they were at the theatre The Lamont" (Theater Troupe and Site / Commercial Ring) .

Jumping down off the horse, Natalia gave the animal an appreciative stroke of the neck before beginning to move towards the building. There was no need to apprise Obie where she was going because it would be easy enough for him to figure it out. She was going in the building, with or without him. Either he would follow her into the building, attempt to catch the 'whiskey barbarian' by following the trail up the ivy, or choose secret option number three, which was a mystery to her - his choice.

Sweeping through the colorfully dressed players outside, she bounded up the shallow stairway into the building. Natalia absent-mindedly pressed a few nels into the hands of the greeter, quickly trying to gain access to the not-so-public areas of the theatre using persuasive means.

"Could you help me? I'm supposed to meet a friend here – she's a performer. I wanted to wish her luck before the curtain rose. Long blond hair, blu…" she began, but before Natalia could finish, the man interrupted the utterly fabricated, entirely fictitious story, smiling brightly. "Ohhhhhhh, you mean Cassandra! Of course, of course. We aren't supposed to let people go backstage, but there's still time before the show begins. Just follow that corridor right there, and it will take you straight to the actors' area." Being vague had its advantages, as minds liked to fill in blanks all on their own.

After thanking the shockingly helpful man, Natalia swiftly moved down the hallway, hoping to spot signs of their elusive prey.

Template Credit: Oberan

[Oberan]

Oberan stormed into the streets as if possessed. He didn’t bother to close the door behind him, instead electing to throw it open and letting it bounce back. The people inside would pull it shut, or perhaps the Sophia girl would if she chose to join in on the chase. She’d have to be fast about it though, as Oberan didn’t plan on waiting for her, though he did leave her a gift in case she did follow.

He ran fast, but not as fast as his legs could carry him. That’d only tire him out, or –since he didn’t know where the whiskey barbarian had fled to—take him too far in the wrong direction. Even at a less draining pace, Oberan was quite sure he could catch up rather quickly, despite the Barbarian’s head start. There weren’t many people in Etzos who could outrun him, after all.

After a few seconds, he reached a crossroads. The cobbled road continued going straight, but branched off into smaller ones to the left and right. Which way to go? The barbarian still was no-where in sight, he could have headed in either direction. Oberan paused for a moment, running in place rather than stop fully and let his body cool down.

What would he have done? If it were him fleeing, he’d duck into either of the side streets, out of sight as soon as possible. Then get up on the rooftops, where his pursuers wouldn’t think to look. Not initially. People expected everyone to stick to the streets, and unless they actually spotted their mark scamper up a wall, that’s what they’d focus on.

But that’s when he thought like an Oberan. He would do those things, but would this whiskey-spilling, serving girl-molesting Daringtons hater do the same? Unlikely. To catch a bumbling buffoon, one has to think like a bumbling buffoon.

Deep furrows drew lines in his brow. Focus. Imagine.

He’d entered the Inn for Dinner with a purpose. Ordered some drinks to blend in, might as well while there. Doughal & Smiths – no, too fancy, too snobbish. Holsmann Thirteen maybe, or more likely Westmills. Yes, the near non-existent taste of Westmills suited this type of person quite nicely. Drink downed with big gulps, glass placed back on the bar empty. As if it was a cheap ale. Bah. He’d then seen a waitress walk into the foyer, followed her in. Ask questions, smash the glass of actually good whiskey she’s carrying to intimidate her. Make threats. Hit her. Get spotted like a moron, because he’d decided it was a great idea to engage in acts of questionable morality in a public place with a lot of foot traffic, in sight of everyone passing through. Start to panic when one of those people passing through spotted him by coincidence, and yelled. Mind muddled by panic and the knowledge he’d fucked up big time, he then quickly fled the premises.

Now, what would that sort of buffoon do?

Stick to the streets, too rattled to think clearly. Tunnel vision blocking out the side streets, mind focused on getting as far away as possible as quickly as possible. Straight ahead. Oberan exploded into motion once more.

After a while –though without sign of the barbarian—a set of hooves thundered up from behind as he passed the theatre. People in colorful dress entertained the gathering crowd, making the act of queueing to get inside a tad more bearable. Oberan didn’t spot anyone among them wearing an overcoat with a red flame on it.

Sophia called for him. He turned, finding her atop a horse, pointing up. He followed her finger to find someone struggling up the ivy decorating one of the theatre’s walls, heading for the balcony above the huge entranceway. Oberan cursed, immediately rushing for the building. He didn’t go for the tangle of plants though, he had his own way up. One where he didn’t need to trust the roots’ ability to hold him. Strong or not, climbing ivy wasn’t meant to support the weight of grown adult men.

Eyes flitting about in their sockets, plotting a route up the building, Oberan initiated his own scaling of the walls with a running high jump. His feet found purchase on a small decorative ridge, launched him up further towards the balcony. Mid-leap, Oberan flung his lower body past his head to gain even more height. When the momentum dispersed at the apex, gravity pulled him halfway back in position, more or less horizontal. Not ideal, but it would do. The height gained from the maneuver was more than enough to reach for the railing of the balcony, grabbing it tight. Bringing his knees to his chest and engaging his core and arms to combat gravity, Oberan shifted his grip, turning on the railing. Then he let himself drop, feet touching down on the smooth stone of the balcony.

Of course, the whiskey barbarian had already slipped inside the building. Oberan didn’t linger outside.

The first floor of the Lamont –as the proprietor incessantly insisted the theatre be called—consisted mostly of a U-shaped hallway running along the front and side walls of the building. On the inner side sat a multitude of doors gave access to their respective individual balcony seats. Each door was marked with a plaque in which a number-letter pair was etched. Close to the center at the base of the U –near the outside balcony—two sets of stairs led into the entrance hall below and to the next half-ring of balcony seats on the second floor.

Too many options. No time to check them all, but which ones could he forego?

Oberan rushed to the leftmost side of the hall, pushing past theatregoers idling through. They gave him irritated looks, some shouted in indignation. He didn’t listen to it. He rounded the corner and slid to a stop. No barbarian in view only more people attending tonight’s performance. He raced to the opposite side of the U then, still ignoring the couples blocking the path cussing at him as he used the walls to get around them.

The other pillar of the U was completely empty. It seemed that either the theatre had only opened its doors a few minutes ago and the people who’d booked these balcony seats were still filtering in, or all of them had already settled in said seats. Intruding on an occupied balcony would be a bit of a problem. People were already glaring at him, more suspicious behavior might see security personnel sent his way. Not only would that create an extra obstacle, but getting caught and thrown out of the building would be rather embarrassing.

But if we reverse the roles…

Quickly checking his surroundings for passersby, Oberan concentrated. In the span of a few moments he disappeared his clothes, and replaced them by materializing a different set around his body. A patterned tunic alternating red and green, the hem at the neck decorated by a pointed collar with bells at the tips. Tights with one red and one green leg. Green shoes with curly tips from which one bell hung. And a wide-brimmed green hat with a bright red plume in it.

Depending on the environment, the best way of blending in might just be to stand out.

Appropriately dressed, Oberan barged through the nearest door, spilled onto the balcony behind. The group occupying it jumped at the sudden noise, heads turning, some demanding to what the matter was. Oberan brushed them off with a brief apology and mention of an emergency.

Though the view of the stage wasn’t the best from this spot, it did provide an excellent sight of the room itself. Oberan leaned over the railing, scanned for an overcoat-wearing barbarian among the other balconies, then cast his gaze to the area below.

Sophia strode in the room, head swiveling subtly as her eyes swept the seating area. With all the people around though, blocking her view, finding the one individual she hoped to find might be a bit of a challenge. Oberan’s elevated position offered a better overview of the crowd and the layout of the room.

The theatre’s seats were arranged in a hemi-circle, like ripples in a pond rolling outwards to the entrance. To make access easier, they had been divided into different sections by narrow paths running from the last row of seats all the way to the first.

Power-walking along one of those paths, heading for the stage, was a figure trying too hard to appear inconspicuous. An effort nullified by the stiffness in their shoulders and failed attempt at disguising their brisk walk as a leisurely stroll. That, and the flame mark on the back of their overcoat.

"You there! In the long coat! Halt!" Oberan shouted, pointing. The whiskey barbarian startled, and instantly began running again, leaving no doubt as to who was being addressed. The audience –some already sitting, others milling around, but all chatting—looked around in confusion for the source of the noise, then at the running man. "Somebody stop him! He didn't buy a ticket!"

Template credit: Natalia Gregorios

[Natalia Gregorios]

Arc 721, Zi'da 7

Obie had stopped and heeded her call, immediately launching into action up the side of the building. Had Natalia stayed to watch, there was an excellent chance that his athletic prowess would have impressed the young woman. She already had a pretty good idea, based on how quickly the man had gotten out ahead of her and the distance traveled in such a short period. If not for the drunk man with a horse, the likelihood of catching up would have been next to impossible.

After racing into the theatre, the brunette talked her way past the attendant and began searching the interior. Said search, however, was made difficult by all the roaming theatre denizens, looking for their seats or simply socializing. Stationary mingling seemed to be the popular choice, which provided Natalia with more obstacles than opportunities. It made it even more challenging because it was tricky to look for someone and avoid obstacles simultaneously, as she discovered. Weaving between bodies as her eyes took in the scene, she finally realized the folly of being on the ground floor – she needed to be higher up.

As Natalia moved to do just that, a voice called out from the balcony, pointing out a figure with a flame mark on his overcoat down in the 'house' - where she was. There hadn't been long to gaze up at her knight in shining armor, or in this case, red and green tunic, but she knew the moment the voice bellowed that it was Obie. How had he changed so quickly? Enigma delicately wrapped in a mystery, surrounded by obscurity. Who was the man in...tights? Was he really in tights?

Target in sight, Natalia focused on the advantage Obie had given her. With elevated position on the balcony, he could better track her, knowing his companion would follow the whiskey barbarian. That realization allowed concentration for solely the chase itself.

Pushing through the crowd, which now buzzed with energy as they tried to figure out what was happening, adrenaline coursed through Natalia. The same adrenaline felt in the sewers of Yaralon, and if she were honest with herself, a feeling that she had missed.

An announcement came – the show was about to begin! People began moving to their seats, blissfully setting aside the unpleasantness of the disruption as if it didn't matter, creating more traffic for the chaotic pursuit. Luckily, the barbarian's path was equally blocked. Unlike Natalia, his discipline and focus appeared to be a bit more random and brutish, resorting to shoving people out of his way when they didn't move quickly enough, leaving more than one grumbling patron in his wake.

Breaking through to the far aisle, she saw their man making a run for the curtained archway that she assumed would lead to the backstage areas. There was no way to let her jingling jester know where she was going, so Natalia had to have faith he was paying attention. Having been to the theatre a time or two, she hoped the areas were similar enough and her knowledge could be helpful to their task.

A long hallway appeared before her as she crashed through the curtain moments after her quarry. At its end, Natalia saw the man turn the corner and gave chase. Luckily, his traversal through the filled theatre had slowed him down, allowing her to close the distance, although his lead was still considerable.

Dodging the excited performers, racing to take their places backstage, she turned the corner of the corridor to find a man awkwardly sprawled on the floor near a cluster of curtained archways, presumably leading to backstage, muttering about being all but run over. "Which way did he go?" Natalia asked quickly, leading the man to point to a room down the hall and to the right. As she sped away, a thought came to her, prompting the brunette to turn and call back to the man as he regained his feet. "If you see a jester come this way, let him know where you directed me…."

It was fair to say that Natalia's dedication to finding the man was bordering on obsession. Tell-tale clues one might typically pick up on in the heat of the moment missed. A beautifully analytical mind spun just a little too wildly to be completely effective. Find the man, find the man, find the man. Precise focus, such as that she exhibited, had a few drawbacks, such as realizing too late that she had already 'found a man.'

Shit.

Realization dawned on her just as she reached the door he pointed her towards, finding it locked. The coat? Most likely ditched behind a nearby curtain before her arrival. It had been a gamble on the barbarian's part to send her to the door because there was no way to check the door and return to the spot where they had met. He bet on her to continue the chase instead of thinking he'd stop and try to bluff, and it had worked. Mostly.

Golden eyes scanned the hallway as Natalia turned quickly, moving again to piece together where he had gone. One piece of good fortune appeared as her eyes found a swaying curtain a few steps away from his former position - a solid indication of where the man had vanished.

After sweeping the heavy material aside, her arrival backstage was met with whispered chattering as several performers turned to look at her. Rushing to her, a clearly stressed woman grabbed Natalia's arm and began speaking rapidly in a hushed voice as she looked the young woman up and down, firmly pressing a frying pan into her hands.

"Excellent. You'll do. No time for makeup, but that's fine. Right, so here's your prop. All you have to do is run across the stage and menacingly chase the male understudy I just sent out onto the stage. Let's see. I'll point him out to you. I don't know where Francis has gotten off to, but at least someone stepped up! He's right out there..."

Pulling on the brunette's arm, the frazzled woman pulled her into the wings and gestured to a familiar face on stage – the barbarian. Free of the overcoat and hood, the long blond hair the inn guest described was noticeable, although he tied it back at some point; Natalia didn't recall it banded during their encounter in the corridor. Why he was on the stage was a mystery, but the 'why' wasn't all that important right then as it seemed she was being sent into the fray as well.

With 'guards' lining the fringes of the stage left, stage right, and upstage, the quarry was ensnared, trying to stumble his way through the performance with random words and actions. Apparently, he was trying to figure out how to get off the stage without traveling back towards the area where he entered, eyes darting from one place to another. Natalia rapidly concluded that he had wanted to be on the stage, believing it would be the key to a stealthier escape, then found himself unwittingly trapped and cornered by the other actors. The whole affair might have been amusing if her focus hadn't been on getting to him. Then lady luck shined on her again, providing a golden opportunity as well as a bonus – the frying pan.

Flipping through the script, the woman next to Natalia fretted. "That's not in the script! None of that is in the script! Oh, dear!!!! He's ruining things! He said he knew the part. We need to feed him the lines or get him off stage."

Turning to the newest understudy recruit, the woman pointed out at the stage once again. "Go!! Just yell, 'Who art thee to threaten the one I loveth, brother? Mine own life is just that, Alexandre! Begone!' and brandish the frying pan. Chase him offstage, and we will try to fix this mess. Got it? Go!" Before Natalia could react, the anxious woman firmly shoved her between two actors playing guards.

Standing there for all to see, and to the apparent shock of the whiskey barbarian, she tried remembering what the pushy woman had said. Words! There were words and things she had to do. The frying pan was essential, but at that moment, Natalia couldn't remember just why and what to do with it, and all eyes were on her.

She knew there was nothing to be done but follow through and hope for the best. Where the beneath was Obie?!? Hoping beyond hope he'd find her, Natalia settled, remembering what the instructions were. Raising the frying pan, she spoke the lines towards 'Alexandre,' knowing nothing of voice projection or vocal tempo. Loud, she knew she needed to be loud.

"Who though art...to threaten the man I love, Alexandre? Life mine is my own, brother. Begone thee and never...showeth thy visage here again!"

It was an awkward, stumbling attempt at best. Tripping over the delivery of the words a bit – she was no actress - she simply added a few more to hopefully cover for it before waving the frying pan menacingly at her target and charging towards him.

That part was easy.

Template Credit: Oberan

[Oberan]

Sophia heard his call, weaved through the crowd in the direction he’d indicated. Oberan traced her path with his gaze for a couple moments, ready to shout additional instructions if required. There was no need however, as his initial yell had been sufficient for Sophia to get the barbarian squarely in her sights. Homing in on him like a loanshark smelling due payments. Oberan had to give it to the girl, she moved good. Obviously there was a lot of room for improvement, but the way she dodged bystanders without losing too much speed or letting her mark slip out of sight made it clear she knew what she was doing.

Oberan tilted his head in appreciation. He’d told her to tag along on a whim, the raw numbers telling him two bodies had better odds cornering a fleeing rat, but it seemed Sophia would be more useful than anticipated. Which meant he could afford her a bit of trust at the very least, which left him free to attempt a pincer maneuver.

A crisp chime echoed through the auditorium, exciting the gathered crowd. Shouting through a cone, a stagehand heralded the imminent start of this evening’s performance. The cliques broke up, rushing for their seats, blocking the paths of Sophia and the barbarian both. Oberan wasn’t too worried. Their respective positions hadn’t changed, though detours had to be taken. The barbarian, being a barbarian, resorted to roughly shoving people aside as he headed for the backstage.

Behind Oberan, someone scraped their throat. A well-dressed man stared at him, gestured towards the seats filled with theatregoers. “Not to be rude, but eh, could you move out of the way, maybe? It’s going to start soon, and you’re blocking the view of the stage.” The people around him nodded in agreement.

He rolled his eyes. “Sure. Give me a moment, I’m kind of in the middle of something more important than the first few seconds of a play.” Like guesstimating the time it’d take to get down via the conventional infrastructure compared to continuing the chase staying on the balconies. There was a route leading down, emerging from the background clutter. A frankly more interesting route that’d save him the need to double back.

“More important than the beginning of Oscar Garusso’s famed and lauded ‘And his hair smelled of a sunset with no clouds’? I highly doubt it!”

“Sounds like the kind of pretentious low-effort, high-art bullshit snobs without a single ounce of taste would attend in order to emphasize their upper-classness, and feel more important than they actually are,” Oberan said, not bothering to look away from his planned route. The man stuttered, growing red in the face, seeking for a retort, but uncertain where to start.

Oberan didn’t wait for him to figure it out. He stepped onto the balcony railing instead, to the protest of the people in the seats. It took but a moment for Oberan to find his balance on the smooth polished wood, then he began to run towards the stage. A few steps to build up some speed, then he leapt to the next railing, and repeated the process. Neither his feet, not his clothes, nor the bells on his outfit made any noise at all. The gasping people he rushed past did though.

Soon enough he reached the last of the balconies, and had to slow down to clamber across a stretch of wall. To be aesthetically pleasing, the interior walls were adorned with many debossed reliefs, which provided a multitude of hand- and footholds. Closer to the stage hung a large ornamental banners with the sigil of the Lamont embroidered on it. They reached all the way from the ceiling to a meter or two above the floor, and were attached to the wall by means of a sturdy iron rod. The fabric itself resembled a rug more than a curtain.

With hardly a moment of hesitation, Oberan kicked off from the wall, grabbed hold of the banner, and swung himself up on the rafters above the stage. Hidden from sight of the audience by an extra bit of wall, a whole new side of the theatre revealed itself.

Stagehands scrambled about here, working from narrow walkways attached to the network of beams. Several manned the lighting rigs, focusing lanternlight –filtered through colorful stained glass plates when the mood of the scene demanded it—with large mirrors to highlight the actors down on stage. There were pulley systems to rise and lower the curtains, large stage-spanning canvases of background art, props, and even rickety-looking platforms to elevate actors into the heavens, or make one descend from above.

They didn’t notice Oberan, too engrossed in their respective jobs to see him sail into their workspace. He masked his presence the moment he landed, so he could sneak about without interference. Not that he needed to worry. All the attention was focused on the stage below, where –so they grumbled and complained—an inexperienced actor made a mess of things. Apparently, this performance was meant to be an experimental modernist rendition, setting itself apart by using unskilled volunteers to play minor roles to add authenticity. A realist twist added to the stage play, in the name of artistic liberty, which produced … mixed results. To the stagehands who had to deal and keep up with the antics of the poorly prepared laymen and –women fumbling their way through their parts, it was mostly a major source of stress.

Especially when a scene featured these so-called understudies exclusively. If an experienced actor stood on stage for them to play off of, the flow of the scene remained largely unchanged. The actor could feed them lines when they forgot, and would guide the volunteers through the scene by virtue of their leading role. As a result, the stagehands in the rafters only had to stick to what they’d rehearsed. Not so when the volunteers were thrown to the wolves, then they had to improvise.

Like they did now. One team lead coordinating all the other technicians, who scrambled to switch out colored glass plates, and struggled to anticipate the erratic movements of the volunteer on stage as they tried to keep the light centered on him. Oberan watched in amusement for a few seconds, then made his way over to the ladders leading backstage. Whether Sophia had managed to corner the barbarian already or not, he’d find both of them there, no doubt.

“Who though art...to threaten the man I love, Alexandre?” a familiar voice intoned, a tiny step away from screaming. It didn’t sound very healthy for the throat.

Oberan blinked. On stage, brandishing a frying pan, Sophia bathed in the glow of several beams of light. She waved the utensil at the bumbling man he’d watched just moments prior. No way.

The man she threatened with her frying pan wore no overcoat marked with a flame emblem, but why else would she be on stage?

He strode towards the middle of the rafters, where one of the pulley systems hung. Around a large wheel a length of rope was rolled. The end of it attached to a hook. Oberan thought for a moment, glanced around. Everyone up here was busy, except for a pair of apprentice stagehands. Ordinarily, the gangly errant boys would be rushing all over to help where needed, but currently, they stood to the side, keeping out of the way until called upon.

Which, of course, Oberan did, dropping his stealth. The two boys straightened with a snap, as if caught slacking off. They relaxed a little when they realized it wasn’t one of their mentors who stepped up to them. The tallest of the two pointed at himself with one lanky arm.

“Yes, you two, hurry it up!” He tapped a foot impatiently, and the two youths jogged over with a shrug. “You two can operate the pulleys, right? Does this thing have a safety break?”

The smaller one, whose face resembled a barnacle crusted hull of a ship due to his acne nodded at both of those questions. The tall one crossed his arms, looked down on Oberan in a manner that probably was supposed to be intimidating. “Eh, we’re not supposed to touch anything except when instructed by— What are you doing?”

Oberan was winding off rope from the wheel, estimating the length with a critical eye. “I am going to do something about that mess down below,” he said, wrapping himself in the coils. “He’s ruining the piece, ruining the reputation of the theatre--”

“The Lamont,” barnacle-face corrected, not unlike how the proprietor of the building so often exasperatedly emphasized whenever someone dared call it 'the theatre’ in his vicinity. Oberan rolled his eyes.

“Sure kid, whatever. He’s ruining the reputation of the theatre--” he shot the teen a look. It probably wasn’t very intimidating either, considering he looked like a mummy wrapped in ropes “—and is causing the staff a whole lot of stress. You know what that means for the two of you?” They exchanged a glance, and nodded. “Thus, I’ll get him off the stage. Hold the wheel tight, get ready to pull up when I yank twice on the rope.”

He waited for them to get in position, then let himself fall off the walkway, down to the stage. A rapid jingling erupted from Oberan as he descended –and lost his hat. Rope winding off, spinning him in a blur of twirls, controlling how much slack the rope had with hands and feet. Not the best performance, but spectacular in its own chaotic way.

Rope fully unwound, Oberan swung around the stage in a circle, one hand and both feet holding on to it. With the other he plucked his hat off the boards, and placed it back on his head. From the wings and the rafters, he swore he could hear violent cussing. The whiskey barbarian stared with a look of unhidden confusion. “Alexandros!” Oberan wailed in his best ghost-voice, “I am the personification of your crimes! The time of your judgement is upon us!”

He swung past the barbarian’s back, hopped off the rope and hooked the hook under his thick belt. Hissing at Sophia to hit him on the head with her pan, he tugged on the rope twice, and drained the Thrill of the barbarian. “You will pay for your siiiiiiiiiins!”

Someone below the stage played a drum to resemble thunder, the people in the rafters flickered the lights on cue. Oberan vanished as if he’d never been there in the first place, and poor Alexandre’s limp body was hoisted up into the air, out of sight.

“Meet me at the ladders to the above stage place,” he whispered at Sophia, strolling past her without hurry. No-one else seemed to notice him as he slipped into the wings, and none of the bells on his outfit jingled at all.

Template credit: Natalia Gregorios

[Natalia Gregorios]

Arc 721, Zi'da 7

Still attempting to piece together exactly what had happened, Natalia simply bounced through the experience best she could. If there was a roadblock, a quick pivot sent her in a new direction. Bounce, bounce, bounce…and then came the bright lights of the stage.

She wasn't an actress or anything slightly related to, but it hadn't mattered in the end. Lines were given, and the young woman shoved out into the oblivion of 'theatre.' There was no way for her to know where things stood, so once again, a pivot and a whole lot of awful artistic license was taken. Words that had made sense when given came out in shouted bursts, and certainly not in the order remembered, but it was what it was.

In the trills after delivery of botched lines, her mind fluttered back and forth between the current predicament and where her partner-in-pursuit had gotten off to. Obie had been indifferent to her all evening or had appeared that way to others. Natalia was a bit savvier when it came to people and knew appearances weren't always what they seemed. There was something, although seizing upon precisely what that something was? Difficult. Was it good? Was it bad? Who knew! Nothing about Obie was standard, normal, or old hat – at least not in her experience – but she didn't have time to sort it just then.

Natalia was a cultured young lady. Frequenting the theater and other performing arts functions was one of the hallmarks of her trying youth. Her mother loved dancing, and had wished to instill the same passion for the arts that she possessed into Natalia. Perhaps a bit had transferred to her more pragmatic daughter, but Olivia Whitehall Gregorios was only interested in outward appearances and things that looked lovely and pretty. Whatever interest the young Gregorios had in art was seeded in something much more profound and meaningful.

But for whatever meaning Natalia found in performances was nothing remotely close to the lunacy that began being shouted from the audience once she made her arrival and lines bellowed at the crowd. The play was somewhat interactive, apparently, or at the very least didn't discourage loud discussion in the audience regarding meaning, symbolism, and context of the performances, and the first few rows of patrons had quite a lot to say about the lovely, loud young woman.

"The lines!" one enthusiastic man loudly stated. "The delivery of such was to indicate the stunted condition of life she's living with. Just wait! Soon the words will be flowing as she's released and set free." There was a general grumbling of consent and agreement, although another woman countered with her own take. "I agree, but I think it's the frying pan symbolizing that, not the lines. She's obviously a very talented actress, letting the props speak for her. Bold, so very bold."

Inside, Natalia was having something of a quandary. There was a need rising, one that wanted to shout down all the beautiful pretentious people, but discipline stayed her mouth, as it were. The similarity between these people and her mother, whom the brunette held in relatively low regard, was stunning. Still, she was smart enough to realize the likeness might affect her opinion at the moment and knew well enough not to act upon it.

She started for the barbarian, who was unlucky enough to be trapped on the stage with her. Indecision about what would happen when she reached him reigned supreme, but everything else up to that moment had been relatively unscripted, so Natalia was confident something would come to mind, or an unseen opportunity would arise.

What she hadn't counted on, however, was her knight-in-tights descending from the theater catwalks, tumbling madly down a rope until hitting the end of it. It was chaos and beauty, all wrapped in one, as the audience jumped at the sudden entrance, mouths gaping open. A few patrons erupted into cheers and clapping, but most continued to be stunned at the dramatic turn of events, transfixed on the new player, hungry to see what happened next.

Backstage exploded in a fury of voices which Natalia could barely make out, other than there were many of them, but the very mental picture made her smile just a bit, realizing then that Obie was a master of the playbook she was learning to operate from. There was no planning for what happened, yet he arrived just in time with an entertaining entrance to boot. He had skills - that was obvious.

There was little time to admire the intricacies of the act, though. Natalia allowed herself one trill and then reined the thoughts that were a little too far afield, refocusing on the task at hand, which for the moment was watching Obie swing around the stage, delivering his lines with much more skill than she had hers.

As he swung past, words reached her, speaking of action. Looking at the frying pan clutched in her hand, she considered what material comprised it – the weight was considerable. Why would they want a heavy prop? It seemed counter-productive to her, but then again, perhaps there was a reason she couldn't account for. Ah well, one couldn't know all the mysteries of the world. Hmmm. Frying Pan. Wasn't she supposed to be doing something?

Oh! Right!

Striding up to the whiskey barbarian, Natalia took the frying pan and smacked him in the head. A deep 'thud' and slump later, the man was no longer an issue. Jubilant, the audience erupted in cheers for 'stunt,' and no one seemed to realize that Natalia had actually hit the man. Obie appeared next to their quarry, and everything else was a blur, ending with the man rising on the end of the rope, devoid of movement.

It was that fact that caused momentary panic within her. She hadn't hit him that hard, had she? She and Grayson were working on her strength, so perhaps? Natalia was a bit tired from lugging the damn thing around. Bludgeoning people wasn't a skill within her current wheelhouse, but she knew a bit about dynamics from their work in unarmed combat.

Whatever the case, he lifted away from the stage, seemingly in no condition to resist much of anything, leaving her to ponder what came next. She and Obie would need to retrieve the man, to take him back to the inn, but he was rapidly ascending into the catwalks, and they were on the stage. All the makings of a wonderfully complicated snafu.

A few steps ahead of her, Obie's whisper filled her ear. The ladders. Where would the ladders be? Backstage, of course, but she had to get off the stage first. Thinking to follow Obie into the wings, Natalia turned, but there was no sign of the man. Not a bell to be seen or heard.

He was just…gone.

Suddenly came the stark realization that she was still on the stage and, currently, the breakout star of the show. An exit was needed and fast. It was time to do more of that pivoting thing. The issue was that she had nothing left in the way of creative options. That well was dry, and for lack of better ideas, Natalia did the only thing that came to mind.

With a quick toss of the frying pan, away from the other actors, of course, a dramatic exit was born. Shouted. Loudly. "I shall anon and meeteth mine own future! I wisheth all well, forsooth mayhaps!" Swiftly pushing through the others and into the wings, the brunette heard cheers and wild clapping coming from the audience. In stark contrast, the woman she had spoken to before – the one with the script – was currently curled up in a nearby corner, drinking. Passionately. And perhaps sobbing a bit.

Quickly dismissing the utter chaos of the backstage area, she looked up and tried to see where the ladders would come down from the catwalks, tracing them back to an area adjacent to the stage. That's where Obie wanted her, so that's where she would go, but knew time was of the essence.

The first thing Natalia noticed was that he wasn't there and, realistically, should have arrived before her. Waiting didn't seem wise, and from what she concluded, he wanted them to go up into the catwalks to retrieve the barbarian. If she stood there any longer, though, there was a possibility of getting caught being somewhere she shouldn't have been, and Natalia didn't think she could continue to talk or bluff her way out of trouble. Only so far could one take lady luck before the tide began shifting the other direction.

Looking up the ladder, she noted a small balcony not too far up, where one ladder ended and another began. Thick curtains on ropes partially hid it from view, which was the most appealing thing about it. Getting to that spot would give her a place to watch for Obie and keep prying eyes away from her. There was always the possibility of someone else going up or down the ladder, but that was a risk she'd have to take.

Muscles she didn't realize existed began to throb as the young woman worked her way up the ladder, just a short distance until she found herself perched on the balcony. Perfect.

Eyes open, she waited, looking for any sign of her wayward companion and watching the ensuing madness below.

Template Credit: Oberan

[Oberan]

Sophia wasn’t alone on the balcony, something she’d notice a minute or so after climbing up. Someone stood beside her, one hand stroking his beard, eyebrows raised. “Are you hiding from the producer?” he said, “Good thinking. After that performance I'd want to hide in shame too. And, honestly, I'm pretty sure that once she gets her wits about her again, she'll be absolutely livid.” When he'd passed her though, she was downing the contents of a hip flask like nobodies business. And wiping away hot tears. But the anger would come.

Oberan no longer wore the jester’s motley. Somewhere in between his exit from the stage and his arrival here, he’d changed back into the outfit he wore before entering the theatre. Less bright and eye-catching, even though it hadn’t hindered his ability to move unseen. He started towards the ladder, beckoning Sophia, and began climbing.

Up on the loft, order had been restored. The majority of the tension had ebbed away, the technicians looking a lot more at ease wow the rookie performers and their dismal acting prowess had vacated the stage and the performance continued according to its script. Below the walkways, a new scene played out, three professional actors gripping the audience.

Two knights in gleaming plate and differently colored plumes sought the council of a wizened tree who only spoke in cryptic rhyme. Sinking to their knees, the knight with the blue plume lamented the woeful truth gleaned from the sage conifer. Not even their bountiful love for each other would be enough to bridge the gap and mend the differences between their two orders. Their ideologies, though not incompatible, would be exploited by those who hid behind it like a shield, refusing to see eye to eye. A clash would follow, and war would soon break out.

However! So boomed the tree, such doom could be avoided, but it would require a sacrifice. If both knights discarded their pride and honor, their loyalty to and standing within their orders, there existed a glimmer of hope. Alas, they were stalwart knights of unwavering faith and conviction. To denounce their honor and loyalty, to denounce their orders and the ideals they stood for meant to denounce themselves and their worth! Even if it served the greater good, could they live with themselves afterwards?

Could they break the very oaths they swore to uphold, no matter the cost? What meaning did their life yet hold if they discarded nearly everything important to them? If they rejected everything they stood for, everything that made them who they were, what was left? Surely they could forgive one another for doing so, but themselves? How could one love another if they had no love for themself? But if the knights upheld their oaths and left the conflict to fester, the guilt would eat them alive. To look away when they could evoke change was not right, not just. Not even if it was for the sake of keeping their love intact. Such selfish love would not last, as one could not love another if they did not themself.

The knight in the yellow plume glanced skyward, posed and poised. A beam of light focused on them as all the other stage lights dimmed, and, with a dramatic swell of the music, they broke into song.

Overhead, Oberan strode across the walkways, weaving around working technicians manning the lights. A heap of man lied face-down on a platform near the pully wheels, not moving. The barbarian. Two teenage apprentices bickered among themselves, casting nervous glances at the unconscious man every so often. They didn’t make any moves to try touching him.

“You didn’t hit him that hard, right?” Oberan asked Sophia, leaning a little in her direction. He was pretty sure he’d not drained enough Thrill to keep him unconscious for very long either.

He approached, and both youths backed away. “We didn’t do anything! We just put him on the floor and removed the hook and he wouldn’t move at all--”

Oberan waved them further away, took a moment to squint at the unmoving barbarian. Not dead, that was certain. He could see him breathe. None of his limbs were bent at an odd angle, nor was his neck.

Another step closer. Warily crouching down to feel the barbarian’s pulse—

The man sprang to his feet in a burst of sudden movement, grabbing onto Oberan’s clothes to pull himself up quicker, then roughly shoving him aside. Oberan spat out a particularly vulgar cuss, mostly at himself for falling for the oldest trick in the book. His feet sought for room to steady himself, to combat the sudden push, and found none at all. Only the edge of the platform, and quite a long drop right beside it. The barbarian didn’t linger to gloat as Oberan toppled sideways off the walkway, instead he brandished a knife and charged at Sophia. Oddly, while the confidence with which he wielded it spoke of some skill with the blade, the barbarian’s movements were rather sluggish. As if he'd just stepped out of bed and his body hadn’t woken up fully just yet. As if his muscles weren’t quite able to muster up the full extent of their power.

Still, sluggish or no, an armed man was a dangerous man, and the same applied for a desperate one. Something Sophia’s cousin no doubt had drilled into her head countless times. And the whiskey barbarian, cornered up in the loft – the path leading down blocked by the young woman who’d chased him all the way here – certainly was both.

Oberan, meanwhile, gave up on fighting the downward momentum as he lost his footing. Gravity had too strong a hold on him to regain his balance, so he just didn’t bother. Rather, he let it drag him off the walkway, electing to grab on and swing underneath it. Blood surged through his veins, his stomach fluttered. Before he knew it, he appeared on the other side, momentum carrying him up the railing. The rickety platform barely rattled as he landed, perched.

Sophia’d managed to weather his assault, though she seemed to be having a hard time doing so. Slowly but surely the barbarian forced her back with the sheer intensity of his lunges, or perhaps she simply didn’t fancy letting him come close enough for the fight to turn into a physical struggle where he might push her off the ledge as he had Oberan. As the walkways were only railed on one side, one good shove was all he needed. Without any other options, the only way to evade was backwards, which would eventually lead the both of them to the area near the ladders, where there an actual floor provided solid footing and a lot of room. More options for Sophia to try and turn the tide of the fight, but the same was true for the barbarian.

And for Oberan.

Waiting until the both of them were well and true out of risk of falling onto the stage and break several bones, Oberan slid off the railing and onto the walkway itself, making not a sound. He approached the barbarian from the back, prowling like a cat about to pounce, moving along with the man’s movements, circling round so he remained behind him. Looking for a chance, an opening.

A wide backhanded slice, wild and uncontrolled. The telltale sign of a man losing his patience. That or starting to grow fatigued. The lethargy still sapping his strength likely didn’t help. Oberan clamped a hand around the barbarian’s wrist, twisted the arm behind his back. Forced him to drop his weapon, and caused his knees to buckle to try and escape the uncomfortable position. The man swiped with his free hand, but Oberan kicked his legs out from under him, and slammed him face-first into the floor. One knee on his back to pin him down, wrestling the barbarian’s other arm behind his back as well, he addressed Sophia, nodding to a length of rope lying near his feet. “Care to tie him up? I don’t think I can hold him forever.”

Once that was taken care of, he wiped the sweat from his brow, giving the girl an appreciative look. “Good job keeping him busy. For a moment there I thought he was going to slip away again. He’s better at running than I gave him credit for.” He hauled the man to his feet, and glanced towards the ladders. Then at the hands, bound behind the whiskey barbarian's back. That… might be an issue. “Any ideas on how to get him down?”

Template credit: Natalia Gregorios

[Natalia Gregorios]

Arc 721, Zi'da 7

She was alone, and then she wasn't. Sure, Natalia was a disciplined young lady with more nerve and guts than most, but when a body appeared, out of thin air, next to her, it took everything within her not to react – violently.

Heart racing, adrenaline suddenly pumping again – it really was an up/down kind of evening for that – Natalia moved to draw her dagger before realizing who her company was. Too late to stop the rush of fight-or-flight inducing hormones, of course, but recognize she did, remarking with a exasperated whisper. "Just how are you doing that? Not here one minute. Here the next. You did it at the tavern too." As if they didn't have more significant issues right then, but then again, curiosity was a harsh mistress.

Sporting an infuriating grin, Obie simply wagged a finger at her. "Ah, don't you know? A magician never reveals his tricks." Despite her frustration and multitude of emotions weighing down on her, and even knowing that he was trying to get under her skin, Natalia couldn't help but acknowledge there was a small piece of satisfaction in seeing him smile.

There was an inkling of something else too. Instead of surfacing, the sensation seemed to be trying to dig itself further down inside of her, which Natalia found highly peculiar, but it was what it was. The longer they were together, the more she sensed it. Maybe it was because they were alone, relatively speaking, or bound momentarily by a shared task, but there was something. For all the words available and at her command, no assortment of them seemed to be able to describe the sensation sufficiently. Best she could do was admit that she didn't mind his company, and regardless of the mood he had been in, Natalia probably preferred said company over most.

"I suppose then it's a good thing I'll be gone by the time she wakes up from the hangover drinking all that alcohol will produce." Beaming at him, Natalia was skilled enough to know that either he wholeheartedly believed what he said, or he was trying to get a rise out of her. And regardless of which, she wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of a job well done.

It was then that the brunette realized that the colorful tights and garb he wore during his, she was sure, highly acclaimed turn as the ghost of judgment, were gone. For the briefest of moments, the walls Natalia so perfectly erected to showcase her discipline cracked, eyes flashing in irritation and confusion as her tone betrayed such. "How?!? How did you change so fast? How are you doing any of this?"

In his element, with a captive audience of one, the man clucked his tongue with a theatrical, disapproving 'tsk, tsk.' "A magician..." he repeated, allowing the words to fade away, trusting that she remembered the rest.

Catching his eyes with hers, orbs of gold searched his gaze, looking for answers. Natalia couldn't help herself. "Who are you?" She didn't understand any of it, but then again, perhaps she wasn't supposed to.

Clearly enjoying the chaos he sowed, Obie's response consisted of a mysterious little smirk and quick retort. "Who wants to know, Sophia Renaldi?" Just the way the name 'Sophia Renaldi' rolled off his tongue, Natalia was sure her companion suspected it to be what it was - an alias. There were in the deep now, both suspecting the other wasn't quite what they appeared to be but neither knowing exactly what was form that took, or even if it mattered.

Who the beneath was he?

She followed as he led her towards the ladders, slowly climbing behind him as the pair ascended to catwalk level. As familiar with theatres as she was, Natalia's experience had always been from the patron's vantage point, sitting in a seat and enjoying the art playing out in front of her. Perspective was a fantastic thing, and while some would say seeing behind the scenes of a play ruined the immersive experience, she disagreed. From backstage, one could appreciate what went into making the art come alive and understand it from a different angle - the creative process at work.

For the moment, content to follow her companion's lead, Natalia busied herself by observing that which was around them. They hadn't needed to communicate their destination, for it was rather obvious where they needed to go – to collect the barbarian. Limited conversation allowed the pair to move quickly without distraction, leaving each to their thoughts.

As they wove through the maze of people and equipment high above the action onstage, Natalia noticed the lump of man, apprentices standing there over him, squabbling about what to do. Obie's question prompted a shake of her head. "It was a cast-iron pan. I judged the best I could, but I don't think it should have done permanent damage." The words were as confident as she could make them sound, but in truth, the young woman just wasn't that knowledgeable about such matters.

Her whispers to him ended as they approached, and Natalia watched Obie squat down to take a closer look. Had she hit the man too hard? Perhaps he had gotten tangled up or smacked something on the way to the catwalk and injured himself further. The possibilities to explain his current condition were endless, but hopefully, they would figure out what had happened.

A rush of movement caught Natalia off guard, and nothing could have prepared her for watching Obie tossed over the side of the catwalk. Adrenaline flooded her system as she launched herself forward, hand extended, intending to try and catch his wrist or anything she could to stop the fall. However, regardless of her intentions, the young woman was blocked by the charging, armed barbarian coming. The desperate man had disposed of the most significant threat and now intended to deal with her.

Momentarily torn, Natalia desperately wanted to get to the spot where Obie had gone over but knew she'd be putting her own life in danger, and for what? Whatever assistance she could offer would be similarly available from the teenagers, who were behind the barbarian now, looking over the edge of the walkway to see what had become of Obie. Besides, the brunette had her own survival issues to tend to.

Natalia found anger rising within her, which she rarely allowed herself to feel. It was a strange mix of feelings, blending with the terror of someone wanting to do her harm and the unknown condition of her companion. There was some experience, having been in life-or-death situations before, in using discipline to push everything down so she could deal with what was before her, but it was becoming more and more instinctual. Obie's fate was unclear, but she couldn't do anything about that until she dealt with the looming threat.

Shifting, Natalia immediately tried to increase the distance between the two. The barbarian was quick – she gave him that. Turning her back on him wasn't wise, but running backward wasn't a skill in her wheelhouse. That would have ended in disaster.

Feeling a tug on her clothing, she hadn't been fast enough as her quarry-turned-hunter got his hands on Natalia, stopping her forward momentum down the walkway. A hard smash of foot on top of his, combined with the man's unexplained weakness, caused his grasp on her to fail, allowing the young woman to escape again, scrambling away as quickly as possibly.

She knew it was a bit of a trap coming back to the platform with the ladders, but the available options were limited. Taking the time to maneuver to a ladder would give her opponent time to catch her again, and Natalia didn't want that. Time was what was needed and the ladders wouldn't provide that.

The universe chose that moment, as she whipped around to face the oncoming foe, to confirm her earlier thought on not running backward, feet tripping over a coil of rope and sending her sprawling to the hard platform. Almost gleeful at his good fortune, the barbarian closed in, raising his dagger, determined to use the moment of opportunity to his advantage.

Flipping to her back, Natalia did the only thing she could think of, knowing that keeping him at a distance was the priority. As he approached and lunged, her feet rose, kicking at him wildly. Grayson had taught her a few kicks and such related to unarmed combat but nothing specific to the position she was in, and even at that, she was nowhere near skilled enough for a targeted strike.

As luck would have it, her furious kicking managed to hit his hand, almost sending the knife flying. The barbarian came at her again, growling, but this time she was ready, hearing Grayson's voice in her mind. "If you've got one shot, make it count." At the moment, it seemed an apt piece of advice.

Natalia's foot rose again as he moved to attack, smashing the lead foot, as best she could, into his vulnerable groin area with all the strength she had left. Her adversary was caught entirely off guard, gasping heavily as he stumbled back. It hadn't been a direct hit but close enough to take the wind out of him, which was enough of an opening for the surprise creeping up from behind.

Natalia looked up, hearing the scuffling nearby, and sighed in relief. Obie. Somehow, he hadn't fallen and made his way back to her. Quickly trying to find her feet again, Natalia rolled over and scrambled up, attempting to figure out how to help subdue the man.

By the time she did so, though, her companion had the matter under control, gesturing her towards the rope. Moving swiftly, Natalia grabbed the rope and began wrapping it around the barbarian's wrists as Obie held him down. The man writhed as she worked, but the situation resolved after a few bits, leaving them with a delightfully tied-up criminal, complete with a bow-tie flourish.

Her gaze lifted immediately, looking at Obie. Now that the matter was more manageable and they had time to breathe, Natalia took advantage of it, allowing the icy, business-like exterior to melt away for a split second. Slipping her hand to Obie's forearm to obtain his attention, only one question mattered. "Are you alright?!? I thought…when he pushed you over…I tried to get to you..." she began, not wanting to finish the sentence. Suffice to say, there had been a fair amount of terror involved, but now they were both there and she wanted to make sure.

Meeting his question with a look of contemplation, Natalia considered the options. How would they get him down, indeed? Rising, Natalia cast her eyes around the area. There didn't appear to be any other exits but wait. Wouldn't they need another way to get equipment and bulkier items into the loft above the stage? They weren't hauling such up and down the little ladders, certainly, so logic told her there was another way.

Calling over to the teenage apprentices, who were simply watching the situation with the barbarian unfold with wide eyes, she quickly blurted out her inquiry. "Is there another way to access this area besides the ladders?" The one boy pointed to another area of the catwalk. "'Here's a door back there. It 'eads to the steps down into the foyer and back alley."

Arching her eyebrow, Natalia nodded, turning to her companion, giving him a mischievous grin. "Ask, and ye shall receive, good Sir. Let's go!"

Template Credit: Oberan

[Oberan]

Oberan grunted a little as the barbarian struggled to break free, twisting this way and that as far as he could before the discomfort of the arms held behind his back turned to outright pain. Sophia worked the rope in loops around his wrists, tight ones that’d hopefully keep the thug bound for quite a while.

Once finished, Sophia tugged on his arms as Oberan rose and wiped a gathering sheen of sweat from his brow. She seemed a bit shaken, rattling off barely coherent sentences. The adrenaline, no doubt. A result of her high-stakes clash with their quarry. Being suddenly attacked with a knife atop a narrow walkway certainly would get the body pumped. Unfortunately, once the danger had passed, that state of heightened alertness and tension tended to impair cognitive function a little.

“I appreciate the concern,” Oberan said, pulling the whiskey barbarian to his feet, “but I’m alright. No worries. I’ll admit I got a bit of a fright when he pushed me off balance, but immediately after I had everything under control again.” As he spoke, he took off the edge of Sophia’s thrill, returning her to her usual levels. He pushed the excess into the barbarian, bringing him back to normal as well. “But, as I said, I appreciate the sentiment.”

Strength returning and the lethargy abating, the bound thug wriggled, straining against the ropes around his wrists. Oberan held firm, his grip on the man’s arm not wavering, though he had to use his other hand to help keep the man in check. As soon as it became obvious his attempt wasn’t working, the barbarian settled down again.

In the meantime, Sophia had obtained directions downstairs from the two apprentices. As she turned back to Oberan and gestured towards the exit, one of the catwalks clattered under the impacts of brisk steps.

“You three, just a second!” a male voice called.

Oberan clicked his tongue and pushed his captive towards the door Sophia'd indicated, but the whiskey barbarian refused to cooperate. Taking a deep breath, he turned them around towards the approaching footsteps.

A tall mustached man walked up, making the two teenagers jump and stand just a little straighter. He took a moment or two to bark orders at the both of them, gesturing wildly as he did. It seemed he was a staff member of some rank. Once the apprentices rushed off as per his directions, he continued for Oberan and Sophia.

He stood a full head taller than Oberan, and looked to be twenty years older. Both his hair and mustache were streaked with grey, and the lines around his eyes were deep. For a few seconds, he fixed his gaze on each of the two men before him in turn, brow furrowed and stare seeming to penetrate right into their mind. The look he gave Sophia wasn't quite as harsh.

Sensing the attention of his captors drifting to the newcomer, the whiskey barbarian seized the opportunity to try and get free again. He was rewarded with another kick between the legs. Almost buckling, his struggles ceased. “I’m telling you now,” Oberan said, “cooperate unless you want another one. If you keep being difficult, I’ll keep kicking. And she will too.” He nodded at Sophia.

The mustached man looked a bit shocked, but didn’t interfere. “What’s all this about?” he asked. Oberan couldn’t tell if he was angry or not. “Aren’t you the volunteers who’ve made a mess of things a few minutes ago?” He squinted at Sophia, then the barbarian. Then Oberan, where his eyes lingered. “And you, the clown?”

“Jester, actually.”

“’s What I said. Clown.” The tone of his voice warned that he wasn’t willing to engage in a debate about semantics. “First you make a mess of the play which, I’ll have you know, we devoted weeks of practice perfecting every single aspect of. Sound, light, lines, the works. Then that fool--” he nudged the barbarian’s chest “—rocks up, bumbling about. Then you!” His head swiveled to Oberan again, face growing redder by the word. “You tumble down from up here after roping those two idiots into whatever nonsense you’ve cooked up, and completely change the script!”

He turned to Sophia then, expression softening just a smidge. The redness of his face withdrew too, and a tiny smile quircked his lips and curled his mustache. “You did fine, love. Until that clown there showed up. Otherwise you did just fine. A bit nervous perhaps, got your lines all confused, but that’s just what happens when you’re not used to being on stage. You did very well for your first time—it was your first time, right?”

It took a few moments after Sophia’s response –or lack thereof—for the mustached man to remember he was supposed to be ranting. Be got to it without further delay. “Anyway, we thought we’d seen the last of you, but then you come up here and cause a ruckus here too! People falling off the walkways! Fighting! With knives!” His mustache trembled, his brows scowled. But that last word reminded him of something. It created a gap between it and whatever the next part of his angry monologue was supposed to be.

Oberan pointed at the barbarian. “He--”

The man cut him off with a wave of a hand, not even looking his way. His attention was focused squarely on Sophia, whom he regarded with a fatherly expression. “Are you alright, love? I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner. I saw you trip and fall, and then that guy striking with his knife--” He looked genuinely worried, and quite relieved when she assured him she wasn’t injured. “Still, we were so busy up here, when the two idiot interns hoisted that guy’s unconscious body up, I just told them to leave him there for a little while. Maybe if I’d had them bring him to the infirmary… But maybe he’d have attacked them too…” The creases on his forehead deepened for a moment. Then he took a deep breath. “Either way, I’m glad you’re okay.”

Finally, he glared daggers at the bound barbarian, who didn’t seem too intimidated. Though the sudden tensing of his body betrayed it was a front. “What? Got a problem, old man? Got something to say?”

The mustached man clenched his fists, his rolled-up sleeves provided an excellent view of his toned forearms rippling. His posture shifted ever so slightly. Legs and arms giving the barest hint of building tension, of desire to explode into action. The man’s eyes blazed with an eagerness, but he held himself back, and silently tore his gaze away.

“That’s what I fucking thought!” the barbarian taunted. Oberan kicked him in the groin again.

Another frown appeared on the mustached man’s brow. “Now, now, son. You shouldn’t waste time and energy on indulging spineless gutter trash like him. Those are valuable moments you’ll never get back.” He shook his head. Having reminded himself of the barbarian's aggression towards Sophia and Oberan, and now confronted with the man's terrible attitude, the mustached man gained enough insight and perspective on the situation at hand to form an opinion. A favorable one, considering his tone of voice just now. It seemed he'd pegged the whiskey barbarian as the cause of all the trouble encountered these last few minutes. He wasn't exactly wrong. “Now I see why you’ve got him tied up like a hog at the butcher’s. Makes me to wonder how such a crude lowlife found his way inside our fine Lamont. Brandishing knives and attacking young women up in the loft. Psh! Disrupting the play is one thing, but this? This goes beyond mischief, and I want to know what in the blazes is going on.”

Template credit: Natalia Gregorios

[Natalia Gregorios]

Arc 721, Zi'da 7

She could see that her companion was at least acting alright, but until he confirmed that, Natalia held her breath, adrenaline still pumping, waiting to see what else would get thrown at her. Obie's assurances that he was were met with a firm nod as the pair hauled the suddenly awake barbarian on his feet.

"You might want to check the ropes," she offered, but a sensation came over Natalia just then. A wave of exhaustion, unlike anything she had ever felt. Well, that wasn't precisely true, having been similarly tired during her experience in the sewers of Yaralon, but there was something more to it this time. Had she pushed herself too hard?

They were about to depart when a voice sounded behind them. Turning, Natalia caught sight of an older man approaching. Sighing softly, she glanced at Obie as they turned to see what he wanted, although it was evident to her. The display with the teenage apprentices was enough for her to surmise he was someone in charge rather than just another theatre worker, and he had his sights set on them.

Her mind and body were weary, but she steeled herself for whatever the mustache man needed from them, which was probably information. The delay aggravated her – she just wanted to get the barbarian to the proper authorities and be done with the matter – but Natalia allowed none of the irritation to slip free, needing to be in the moment to deal with the situation.

Natalia was confident in her analysis, watching as the man visually sized up Obie and the barbarian and noting the difference in his gaze when it turned her direction. For whatever reason, the older man primarily focused his ire on the two boys and not her. Good – that gave her a solid position to help wiggle them out of their mess.

The barbarian began fighting again, and was promptly reminded him why such activities weren't advisable. As Obie 'reminded' him of who was in charge, including her, she gave their detainee a smile and quick wave of fingers. Yes, she'd kick him again – enthusiastically.

Mustache man started running down the evening's events, highlighting the part each had played in the catastrophe of a production, which seemed to be continuing below them, and quite swimmingly if she said so herself, based on the audience's reactions.

He raged at the two others, but when his attention turned to her again, there was a pervasive softness to his demeanor, further corroborating her earlier theory, and she played along with it. Truthfully, Natalia wished she could say that it was part of her ingenious master plan but knew the exhaustion was playing tricks on her. Going with the flow was simply the fastest way to conclude the evening's events.

Nodding softly as he inquired if it was her first time on stage, she allowed him to get back to whatever he was doing. Ranting was undoubtedly involved.

Obie tried to protest a point, but mustache man diverted to Natalia again, which allowed her to reassure him that she was fine – maybe. She said she was fine, but the longer they stood there, the more difficult it was to not give in to the desire to sit down and rest. Why was she so tired?

Obie and the man spoke a bit more, the barbarian did what he did best – mouthed off and got hit in the groin – and Natalia tried to keep up with the conversation while stifling a yawn. She wanted to talk, but no one was asking questions! The sooner they explained things, the sooner she could crawl back to the Inn and into bed, if she made it that far.

Then finally, the moment had arrived! A pertinent question was asked, and it was game on for Obie and 'Sophia,' and she was ready.

Speaking quietly but confidently, Natalia outlined what had occurred, starting at the tavern, leaving out the details that didn't matter, such as galloping the horse down the street. She wanted to give him a complete picture but not take up a great deal of time doing so.

She did, however, make a point to mention that he had crawled up the side of the building using natural forms and imperfections in the stone. It might have seemed odd to some, but as she assured the mustached man, "Desperate people do desperate things." That seemed to ease his concern, and really, it wasn't that high up to the upper balcony, where both the thug and Obie had secured entry into the building.

Weariness was really setting in, and Natalia decided to run with it. Laying a gentle hand on the older man's arm, she smiled gently. "I'm sorry. I just need a moment. I think the events of the evening are catching up to me." Everything, including her condition, was one hundred percent the truth, allowing her to play a part without needing to lie.

Continuing, she explained how both she and Obie, concerned for the citizens in The Lamont, had entered the theatre to ascertain the barbarian's whereabouts while those at the tavern were alerting authorities. Upon doing so, they had done their best not to disrupt the show, only wishing to isolate the man until he could be taken into custody.

Luckily, the tall man had witnessed most everything after that point, so there was no reason to continue down that path, ending the tale with the fact that they were trying to get the man back to the tavern so the Black Guard could take him away.

In a curious twist of coincidence, it was at that moment that one of the young apprentices reappeared on the catwalk. Pointing at the stairs that led down into the lobby, he had news. "Black Guard are here, and some others. Say they are looking for a guy that assaulted one of the servers at the Inn for Dinner."

This development, oddly enough, managed to excite Natalia, for it meant the curtain was about to drop on the exciting, but apparently exhausting, evening. Reaching out, she patted the chest of the thug, smiling happily. "Yes! He's right here! We should go say hello…."

The small group made their way down the stairs to those waiting, which comprised two Black Guard, Mah'ludre from the Inn, and the woman who had witnessed the crime.

The woman immediately pointed at the barbarian in ropes between Obie and the theater man, nodding her head. "That's him! That's the one I saw hit the girl!"

Natalia, walking next to Obie, stumbled briefly on a step, catching his arm to right herself, glancing at him apologetically, and whispering. "Sorry. Must have been all that adrenaline for so long."

The thug was handed over without incident as they approached the Black Guard. One of the blackjacks turned to Mah'ludre and spoke briefly to him. The Inn's owner looked concerned, glancing at Obie and Natalia as they spoke. Ut oh. That wasn't good. Natalia wasn't sure what it meant precisely, but she wasn't getting a positive feeling from the exchange.

"Mah'ludre, is the serving girl alright?" When the pair had raced out of the Inn, the victim was still unconscious, so Natalia thought to ask about her well-being. Well, that and it looked good to do so in front of the Guards.

A few bits later, the Guard addressed the group, his deep voice trying to remain quiet to not distract from the production in the main room. "We will take him, but we need to talk to you two further about your involvement," pointing at Natalia and Obie. Cursing inside, Natalia sighed but said nothing, resigned that she would have to convince more people to let her go back to the Inn and sleep. Or maybe take a bath with some of those lovely smelling salts! Yes, that sounded like a fine idea.

Mustache man raised his voice just a bit, responding to the guards. "Now wait. Yes, they created a mess, but they were only trying to do right by that girl who got hurt. And he almost killed the one by throwing him off the catwalk and then tried to stab her. If that's not enough to prove he's the bad apple, I'm not sure what is…."

The Guard raised his hand, cutting off further protest, "They are still witnesses, and we need to collect all the facts before deciding who did what. If you'd like to make a statement about what you know, you can follow us to the garrison."

Gesturing to Obie and 'Sophia,' the Guard indicated for them to follow but curiously didn't put them in restraints. "Let's go, you two."

They both followed, leaving the theatre, and were led to a building close by but on the city's outer edge. Natalia stayed near her companion, unsure of what was going on or if the guards were to be trusted, but for the moment, it seemed nothing was amiss.

Sharp pains began streaking up her legs on the walk, hitting in brief, quick strikes. The discomfort wasn't enough to hinder her walking, but that didn't mean it felt good. All anyone would see from her were slight grimaces when the spasms hit, and as luck would have it, one of the Guards did look at her during one of those brief times.

"What's wrong, girl? A little walk too much for you?" His voice was harsh, but not overly so, seemingly to find humor in his pointless jab as he chuckled. His partner wasn't as amused, giving her a concerned glance but ultimately remaining silent.

Frustrated by the delay in something resembling rest, the exhaustion, and increasing discomfort, Natalia took a breath to allow her mind to settle a beat before responding. "Charming. I bet all the ladies are beating down the door to experience your particular brand of chivalry. Mind your own business, and I'll mind mine." The tone, similar to the dismissive voice she had employed at the Inn with the drunk, left little for creative interpretation - she wasn't in the mood for idiots.

A flash of anger stormed through his gaze as he turned to look at her again but found Natalia's own steely regard in return. Before the Guard could respond, his counterpart barked a quick order for him to leave her alone.

Soon enough, the group arrived at the city's outer edge, entering a building that Natalia assumed was some sort of guardhouse or headquarters. She and Obie were led to a small room containing only a few benches, but not anything she would consider a jail cell.

Natalia looked longingly at the benches but decided that the cramps in her legs would worsen if she were stationary, so she stayed on her feet, pacing slowly as they waited.

She enjoyed the silence, but locked in a room with an intriguing person she had so many questions about, keeping her mouth shut wasn't an option.

"Obie. Is that short for something else?"

Looking to him, she offered a small smile, shrugging her shoulders gently as she continued softly. "It suits you to a degree. Names are funny things. That man I met earlier tonight? He is definitely an 'Obie,' but there's something more. I didn't notice it until things calmed down- a duality of sorts. Like how a girl can be 'Sophia,' yet there's something deeper inside."

Maybe he would answer. Maybe not.




Questioned separately, Obie and Natalia were allowed to remain together in the times when the Guards were otherwise occupied. It took a few breaks, but finally, one of the Guards came for them, opening the door and gesturing for the pair to follow.

The Guard gestured to a few chairs in the main room, although he didn't care if they sat or stood. Also in the room, Mah'ludre and the older man from the theatre, who gave briefly smiled to Natalia and Obie as they walked in.

The older Guard wasted no time getting to business. "So, we have a crime perpetrated and the criminal in custody. Actually, we have a few crimes, mostly revolving around assault, but that's of little matter in this case."

Eying the pair, he continued. "You two shouldn't have been following him, nor gotten involved like you did. There could have been more casualties, confronting someone like that. It's not appropriate for citizens to get involved in criminal matters."

Mah'ludre rolled his eyes a bit. "If those two hadn't done what they did, the thug would have gotten away. At best, they kept their eyes on him so that others could catch up!"

Holding up his hand, sighing, the Guard nodded. "I know. You've said so many times now. In this case, things worked out. Normally, people aren't quite so lucky."

Gesturing towards the man from the theatre, he moved on. "Ladrian here from The Lamont has an interesting proposition that I think we can all agree with." The way the Guard said, "The Lamont," hinted to Natalia that he had been corrected several times over during their holding period and was over it, making her almost crack a grin.

Clearing his throat, the older man – Ladrian - stepped forward and began laying out the plan. "During the chase in The Lamont, while understandably no damage was intended, there were losses which we would like restitution on. The best way? Recruit the pair of you to work at The Lamont, for a time, until the debt is satisfied. Small, odd jobs here and there."

Watching Ladrian, Natalia began to think about the situation and turn of events. The older man had been kind to her and Obie, and though he was speaking of reparations, something felt off. Her mind worked quickly, trying to sort the matter until it made sense. Of course. The laws held that Natalia and Obie could be arrested, and the Guards were bound to keep to those. Ladrian had given them an out – a different 'punishment' that satisfied the situation's unique circumstances.

The Guard spoke again, confirming her theory. "Both Ladrian and Mah'ludre have spoken well of you, and the proposal satisfies the need to make amends. Do you both agree to it?"

Natalia had no idea what Obie would say, but it was an easy decision for her. Declaring 'yes' would allow her to leave and sleep! She would have done much more to obtain that opportunity, and with the rising pain in her body, slipping away needed to happen sooner rather than later.

"I agree. Are we done?"

Template Credit: Oberan

[Oberan]

Things had taken a turn for the annoying with the arrival of the Blackjacks. Sure, they did release Oberan and Sophia of the burden presented by the whiskey barbarian, but brought with them their own set of complications. In the case of these two diligent guards, it came in the form of sticking to the letter of the rulebook. Bringing in Oberan and Sophia for questioning and incorporating them in the soon-to-come report of the incident rather than dismiss and forego any mention of them because that’d be too much extra work.

Many Blackjacks would have just let them off the hook with a stern warning about vigilante justice, or a mandatory recital they found quite trite themselves. Not these two though. Either they were new and still very much driven by their image of the ideal guardsman, were very passionate about the Law and enforcing it, or actually liked filing paperwork. The thought of the latter made Oberan sweat and tremble.

Either way, he sighed deep and long to express his reluctance at the whole situation –which earned him a glare from one of the guards.

They were escorted to a small guard post some blocks away from the theatre, and shown to a spartan waiting room of sorts. The door closed behind them, but remained unlocked as both guards continued further into the building to stuff the barbarian into a holding cell, and start taking the testimonies of Mah’ludre, the woman who’d witnessed the assault on his waiting staff, and mustache man. Separately, of course.

It took a fair bit of time, during which the duo had no choice but to sit and wait and try to entertain themselves. Oberan made himself as comfortable as he could on the hard wooden benches, slouching deep and propping his feet up. Sophia remained standing, pacing back and forth despite looking rather exhausted. Had he sapped more Thrill from her than intended?

He gave a minor shrug, fished a keyring from a pocket inside his coat, and idly spun it around his fingers. Keeping his focus on the motion to distract himself, to keep his thoughts from wandering now there was no more excitement to keep them at bay. A decent attempt, but futile in the end. After a brief while his concentration wavered and he began staring into space, carried away by the tide of his thoughts.

“Obie. Is that short for something else?”

Blinking, he glanced at Sophia from the corners of his eyes, letting the swirling keys come to a jingling halt. She elaborated on her question, as if defending why she asked. Oberan spun the ring into motion again. Slow circles first, then faster and faster.

“You’re about as much a Sophia as I am a Gregory. Anyone else would suit the name, but not you. Reminds me of some kind of fashion icon or the like.” He thought for a moment, surprised by the specificity of it. In the meantime, silence returned, and he was content to let it hang in the air for a few more minutes, safe for the whirling and slight rattling of metal around his finger. He kept his attention on it, moving the spinning ring from finger to finger, and hand to hand. Spun faster to make it climb hinger, slow down to force it back down. Simple little tricks to retain his focus.

“Oberan,” he finally said. “It’s short for Oberan.”

* * *

Over the course of several hours they were called in for questioning, sent back to the waiting room for a while, brought back to the interrogation room to clarify things or respond to bits and pieces one of the others supposedly had said. All the while one of the guards took notes to compare with the accounts of Sophia, Mah’ludre, the woman, and the man from the theatre. It was a most excruciatingly slow and boring process, and Oberan wished many times he’d just taken the opportunity to vanish right before the Blackjacks had arrived at the Lamont.

Bored out of his mind and quite fed up with having to wait so long even though he’d been playing nicely along up until this point, Oberan wasn’t quite as cooperative as he could have been. Rather than answering questions, he posed his own, demanding answers for a great many things. Among the most important was whether or not the Blackjacks had managed to find out yet how deep Reynauld’s –so the whiskey barbarian was actually called—hatred for Daringtons ran. If him assaulting a server carrying a glass of it was an act of spiteful malice, or a carefully planned deed. And, naturally, since neither of the guards could provide a sufficient answer, why Oberan was being interrogated rather than that Reynauld fellow.

After a couple attempted rounds of questioning during which they managed to pry only a few insightful answers from Oberan’s lips, they dismissed him back to the waiting room, exhausted and frustrated. Sophia had to go through a few more rounds of questions, but Oberan’s presence wasn’t requested again. So he just lounged, drank Daringtons which he produced from inside his coat, and gradually slipped back into much the same state as he’d started the evening in.

Eventually, all of them (sans Reynauld the barbarian) were once again gathered in the interrogation room, where the two blackjacks waited. Their appearance had grown more and more disheveled with every round of testimonies and inquiries, but now they seemed to have collected themselves. Of all the people present, the guardsmen duo might be ones most relieved this whole areal was almost over.

The news shared wasn’t as exciting as Oberan’d hoped. An offhand mention that they’d gotten the barbarian to confess a couple crimes, and a verbal slap on the wrist for engaging in vigilantism. He rolled his eyes at that. Neither guard bothered to react beyond a slight crinkling along their brow. They’d learned. Bah.

“I can handle myself pretty well,” Oberan objected when they mentioned the dangers of civilian interference in criminal matters.

The leftmost guard broke his pokerface, head swiveling in his direction, words escaping in a quick burst of built-up annoyance. “You were thrown off a fucking walkway!” His partner gestured for him to calm down.

Oberan shrugged. “It wasn’t the first time someone’s done that. I had everything under control. The proof is sitting right here. Still alive, not a smear on the Lamont’s stage.”

“Yes, quite unfortunate,” the guard mumbled.

They moved on with their spiel, giving the word to the man from the theatre. The chase had caused a ruckus and had interfered with their livelihood, which the Lamont would want recompense for. Rather than ask for a monetary sum though, Ladrian the mustache man suggested community service instead.

Sophia readily agreed. Oberan on the other hand…

“Amends for what? Disrupting the play?” he said. “It was one small scene! It’s not like they had to interrupt the performance. And it mostly was the barbarian’s fault anyway. But sure, you want me to make amends?” He turned to Ladrian. “I’m very sorry about that. We didn’t mean to ruin the play. But demanding us to work to make up for that small disruption seems excessive to me.”

“Actually,” one of the two guards said, “it’s not really about that at all. See, during your pursuit of Mr. Reynauld, he did attack you, and you did defend yourself. However, there is a point where self-defense turns into battery. We’d call that self-defense with excessive force. However, Mr. Reynauld testified that you –and I quote—‘repeatedly kicked him very hard in the balls’ after he’d been successfully subdued and restrained.”

Oberan crossed his arms. “Bah, he deserved it.”

“So you say. But that's battery, and Mr. Reynauld does want to press charges. As we mentioned earlier, both Mah’ludre and Ladrian have vouched for your character. To the point, I’d like to add, that we were concerned we were dealing with an insufferable doppelganger rather than the man himself. We very much believe in justice, but also the adhering to the letter of the Law, so while you did commit a rather serious crime, you did so while attempting to do the right thing. But, the law is the law, and crimes are to be faced with punishment. So rather than pay a fee to Mr. Reynauld or serve some time in a cell, we decided to have you make amends in a more useful manner. Unless, you prefer us to discard the proposed compromise and do exactly what the law demands we do?”

A sigh. “No, that’s alright. Guess I’ll accept this proposal.”

“Good. Then we are done here. Mr. Ladrian will discuss the details with you at a later date. For now, you’re all free to leave. Dismissed.”

One by one the people filtered out of the interrogation chamber while the guards leaned back and pinched the bridge of their noses and massaged their temples. Mah’ludre and the woman from the Inn, Ladrian, then Sophia. Oberan lingered, standing slowly.

“So, did you ever find out if the barbarian was an agent of Oakside Park sent to sabotage establishments selling Daringtons, or…?”

“Out! Get out!”

He did, and with a satisfied smirk on his lips to boot.

Soon they were on the streets again, breathing in cool night air rather than office dust, guard sweat, and crappy coffee. Mah’ludre didn’t stick around. Offering another word of thanks for apprehending the whiskey barbarian, he left. He had an Inn to run. Ladrian stayed for some minutes longer, telling both Oberan and Sophia to stop by the Lamont within the next few days to go over the details of their ‘temporary employment’, as he called it.

Then he walked off too, and it was only the two of them.

Oberan poured himself another Daringtons, reaching behind his back to grab both the bottle and a glass, stuffing the bottle back there too once he was done. “So. That was less glamorous than I expected. Took quite a bit longer as well.” He sipped his drink, and sighed. “No good deed, blah-dee-blah.” Gaze cast skyward, he searched for the moons behind the clouds. Frowned a little. “You going back to the Inn? I’m sure they’re still there, examining the bottom of their mugs from up close. You’ve got a good story to impress them with now. They’ll hang onto your every word, and gape at your more than they already did.” The glass returned from his lips, empty. Oberan held it up on one palm, and slapped the other down on it. The clap rung through the quiet as both hands collided. His glass had vanished.

“Anyway, I’m out. Don’t get stabbed. Watch out for Nish. She gets touchy when she’s drunk too much. Take care, have fun, all that stuff. Guess I’ll see you at the theatre sometime soon.” Turning, he gave a little wave-salute, and melded with the darkness.

Template credit: Natalia Gregorios