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[CLOSED/QUEST] I'll show you things I bet you never knew you needed
WHO: Waver Velvet + NPCs
WHAT: A simple invitation to a fight club in Kyst to meet a contact? Nets a somewhat less then simple journey in the quest for answers and fortune's favor...
WHERE: Kyst, The Golden Bull
WHEN: Feb 4
WARNINGS: Violence, moderate description of injury, nicotine withdrawal, the 1%
"I don't really care about the money. Barter is just as good."
Gerri shrugs one massive shoulder as she leads the horse pulling the cart full of her latest kills down the street in Kyst. And Waver's brace of snared rabbits. They've already stopped at the butcher's; next is the tannery and the furrier. The woman, whom Waver is sure descended from bears and is just as large as one, refuses to let nothing go to waste. So they'll go until the cart is completely empty. Then they'll go to Gerri's favorite tavern. Or rather today Waver will join her later after the work is done.
"Too many villages can't afford much anymore thanks to the war. A comfortable bed, a roaring fire, ah! A pretty lass in a sh- there's that face, geez, fine. Anyway, if they do for me, I do for them, simple as that. I might live in the wild most of the time now, but here's a wilderness lesson for you, Frown Lines. Even someone like me can't go it alone. We only survive together."
"I bloody know that, Gerri." It's snapped harsher than Waver likes. He's been in a mood since the battle. So many dead. So many that died under his hands despite his best efforts. "I've only survived thanks to the grace of others. That's always been true."
"Do you? Think you may have learned that one bit wrong. They need you too. Lose people like you and they'll die."
Waver boggles at her, reaching for a retort, while Gerri's brow draws down, facial scars dug deep and more peeking out from the collar of her shirt. One massive hand touches them. She's never told him that story. Avoids it at all costs.
(There's stories Waver's avoiding at all costs.)
"It's true. I should know."
There's an ulterior motive to his visit to Kyst. An unknown note, written in an unknown hand, slipped into his room. It's message was simple: You want for answers and I hope to give them to you. Go to the Golden Bull in Kyst. There is someone there who can point you in the right direction.
Gerri was righteously concerned when she heard the contents. The Golden Bull? Gerri confided she had heard of the place, even if she didn't know exactly where it was. The Golden Bull was a fairly exclusive club given its clientele, she said, and only two types of people were to be found there: the rich with more money than morals, and fighters mostly desperate for coin.
From Stars, from Moon, and from the Neutral territories. People that the Priestess and The Emperor might not want mingling - and Waver supposed, The Warlock did, if he allowed the Golden Bull in his territory at all.
No one really talked about what went on inside openly, for obvious reasons - leaders turning blind eyes only went so far, and that line, Waver reckoned, changed all the time. ("The first rule of Fight Club is: you don't talk about Fight Club, huh?" "You're quoting. Where's that from?" "A movie." "What's a movie?" "Er... let me explain...") Gerri was pretty sure they had heavy security to keep the fights just contained in the ring. Waver himself would bet that each patron could be dangerous in their own way, since information brokers and spies would have a field day with ones so rich.
He had seen how the Emperor had doled out consequences after the battle. The Priestess would be the same. The Warlock naturally too. When dealing with a true person willing to do anything to win, the most dangerous kind of person there is, one had to consider their own limits and what they'd be willing to do to survive.
As he told Izuku, only the naive and the unfettered say anything. He's thought a lot about that since Korra's recorded roar at the Emperor ("then you don't care about saving anything! You just care about winning!") and the fallout, including the tattoo now etched on his arm. Including what happened in the days after that and his conversation with Edelgard. He's walking into a shark tank.
This brings him walking onto this dusty street in Kyst located in the Merchant's District, to discreetly look for the Golden Bull. The story is that he needs to pull a friend out if anyone asks. His wife worries, you see, and has sent him to fetch her wayward spouse. So does Waver, is the silent implication.
The dusty street isn't too dusty, however, and strangely empty considering the time of day, but not so strangely given recent events and with many people still hunkered down or recovering. It gives Waver a good view of things. Everything is shockingly clean and well upkept, a sign of the outrageous wealth being displayed everywhere. It's in stark contrast to the poorer districts of Kyst, far more run down. It's the perfect place to stating looking. He just needs to ask around wisely. Even the children playing might have an answer.
As in response to his musings, a ball bounces by...
Waver's eyes follow and time slows down to a heartbeat as they center:
To the richly dressed child.
-Beat-
To the overloaded cart with barrels trundling by.
-Beat-
The snap of rope binding the cargo to the cart.
-Beat-
The bounce of wheels as the cart rolls over cobblestone.
-Beat-
The barrels--
-Beat-
"WATCH OUT!"
Waver flies, pushing forth with what strength he has left after the battle. So low on mana, he's practically human, and it costs him to throw himself into a desperate dash to the child. The lingering pain from the battle flares but the sudden saturation of adrenaline makes it nothing. It's just lucky he's close.
-Beat-
He makes it in time and by some miracle manages to grab the child and clear the trajectory of the barrels, slamming hard into the stone square and cushioning the girl from the impact. Waver then curls, trying to protect her from any potential debris. Thankfully the barrels hold as they bounce away, people yelping as they avoid their path.
Waver groans as he tries to sit up and the girl in his arms bursts into tears. But his body gives and he flops back, still stunned. It doesn't sound like anyone was hurt, and the noise is starting up as people realize what happened and a few heads poke out of shops. He tries again. Nope. The little girl squirms and wiggles free, finely booted foot slamming into Waver's stomach as she does so - "Oof!" - and Waver rolls and watches without words as she races howling to her mother (Waver thinks dazedly she's her mother, or a merchant, or both) as again he tries to wrench himself to his feet.
No. No damage. No one hurt, except for the mass of bruises he's rapidly becoming. Waver hauls himself up and limps off the street before he attracts a crowd. Kyst is a neutral city, but the people here might not be. As he does so...
"I am not helping one of them! You see his aura! I have cousins at that city..."
"That girl could have been killed. If only her father was around to help watch after her, that spendthrift! It's not even his hard earned money he's wasting down at that club on the waterfront. You know the one facing the main pier. The Golden Bull. Her poor mother's been worked off her feet without him...
... wait, is that his kid?"
"Look, he's fine. See, he's walking. Move on. Go help the driver, instead. He's the one who needs a hand before the horse bolts and causes a disaster."
"Wait... is he one of ours? Shouldn't we help?
Hey! Hey! You! Hold up--- where'd he go?"
Well. That's fortunate. Question answered. Life saving deed rewarded. He now knows where the Golden Bull is. And a little of the current climate thanks to the Emperor's invasion of Moon Territory. All for the cost of bruises and making a bit of a scene in the streets.
And... most importantly... the girl is safe.
Not so fortunate, the Caster decides as he catches himself in a storefront's reflection. Waver groans he pushes through the pain to use Restoration to stop hobbling. Last thing he needs is to go stumbling into something he shouldn't, say one of the makeshift shrines to Death occasionally found along Kyst's streets, and really put his foot in it.
"Shit. I can't go into the place looking like this."
He'll get thrown out. Goddamn exclusive clubs always have standards.
It's nearing nightfall when Waver approaches the Golden Bull, thankfully not limping, thankfully clean and put together, but decidedly shabbier than the rest of the people entering the club. His eye marks the rest of the patrons, dissecting their appearance. All having the markers of wealth and are dressed to their stations, but that's where the similarity ends. Some have the gait of military men - steely eyed and stoic faced - some are certainly diplomats by body language and speech. There's the corporate types and here's the nobility. Old money, nouveau riche, intellectual, mage... Waver breaks down each person that comes into the field of his vision and pieces together who they are and where they come from.
And there's a name reaching to him on the cold salt touched breeze, one murmured again and again in prayer from all entering. Fortuna.
The goddess he's been trying to reach.
So is this place hers?
Maybe, maybe not. But it makes sense to invoke her name in a gambling house, where the winds of fate can make or break a man or woman. Even if he wonders if this place might be the domain of the Devil as well.
Waver sighs, bowing his head in prayer, Strength's reminder echoing through his thoughts: 'I trust that you will be respectful in your investigation. We have all suffered the consequences of a war that is not our own.' Respect it is.
"Sorry I'm late, Fortuna. Please guide me to where I need to go."
He's right on time.
All that glitters is not gold, but the interior of the Golden Bull lives up to its name. There's more gold than any normal person should be comfortable with, nearly obscene with its presence, but Waver walks through as if his surroundings should be expected - nay - no less than he deserves as a patron. It's the kind of environment where his 'sister' would smugly rip into her peers and play her games and plan her tortures, or the kind where Melvin would fritter every bit of his mother's wealth away in foolishness and then go running to mummy's purse for more. It's the kind of environment that Luvia Edelfelt believes she's owed and did create when she seizedHarrod's Carnac.
A perfect playground for the elite. For Lord El-Melloi II. And even... Zhuge Liang.
But Waver's true peers count among the serving staff.
Having an aristocratic bearing helps in passing without too many judging looks, though. For there are those aplenty even so; the rich so love their sneers of superiority. Mages even more so. But he can pull off the impoverished patrician (fake) Lord here to beg for Fortuna's favor without saying a single word, and let his body language and the meticulous way he wears his Court issued clothes, quality of the Emperor's tailors apparent even if they're worn by the use they've been through, speak for him. He's perfected the illusion of nobility for decades.
A wealthy man down on his luck. The Golden Bull occasionally receives that ilk as well. It's his weapon for now as long as anyone doesn't dwell too long on his aura or fixate on the Emperor's promise tattoo lying hidden for now under his sleeve.
A Lady and her entourage sniff at him as they sweep by, light reflecting off silver crescent moons pinned to their hi-low blowouts as they pass.
There's a charge to the air as he penetrates deeper into the building, and the air grows smoky and sweet. Waver hisses imperceptibly as the crave for nicotine roars through his body. It begins with tingles in his hands and feet and spreads through him, burning into nausea and a headache both like and unlike a magic hangover. The Caster breathes slowly.
He can't indulge. Especially not when he feels like he might have stepped into an Ian Fleming novel. Especially not when he might need his cigars for defense. Especially not when the memory of Master Rahela restoring his lungs as a lesson to the others in the art, causing him to puke black tar, is still so fresh in his mind, as is the scolding following for his smoking habit.
Concentrate.
He can hear some chatter about how they've summoned a healer for the fighters in the background, as their in house medic isn't available. There's heavy security everywhere, though the guards are unobtrusive. It almost reeks of magic how well they disappear into the background. A branch of Illusion to deflect attention? Becoming more possible with the moment as Waver's Discerning Eye takes it in. Armed discreetly. They remind Waver of the Mage Association's Enforcer Division, though. People who don't need weapons - they are the weapons.
The serving staff is intriguing as well. They attract about as much attention as the guards from the wealthy patrons flocking to the arena in the center of the building, but their body guards keep a close eye on them. Shapely and fine women, handsome men - they fit the setting well as they provide their services. Beauty is but another sign of wealth. One circles to him.
Waver gracefully raises a hand when he sees her tray.
"No, thank you. I don't want a drink."
She smiles and moves on, and as she does so, the muscles in her face move just off enough for him to wonder. Illusion? Flat used magecraft to force smiles when he met Waver as a child. Waver's eyes slide to follow her path, narrowing in consideration.
Ah. The air... the charge... there's no overt chatter of the Priestess and the Emperor's actions. Just pleads for Fortuna's benediction.
They're here for the fight. But the War rages on...
The fight bell rings as he steps into the main room.
Platinum bills spill like water from well manicured hands. Who is Fellden's strongest fighter?
He knows this world. He comes from it. He's in the shark tank now.
No one speaks to him, but even now Waver has good ears despite everything about him being weakened and human. He can hear everyone in the room just fine. And he listens to their conversations as he moves throughout the room. That one a Star - Moon - Neutral - they give away more about themselves and their character then they think.
As Reines would say, and he would have to begrudgingly give her because it's such a basic rule of survival in their society, first comes observation before engagement in any sort of social warfare. And this place is a battlefield. What these people care about... is what he finds these people have always cared about.
("- then you don't care about saving anything! You just care about winning!", roars in his head again.)
Waver drifts closer to the fighter's pit while keeping a bead on what's being discussed at the betting table. He's on the hunt for his contact, and above all the jeers and cheers thrown by the spectators as the men grapple, punch, and kick, he finds himself drawn in by the men and women in the ring. Men and women so very different than the people cheering for their blood.
Waver finds no enjoyment in the spectacle. Instead his eyes sweep them, take them in, assess, as Zhuge Liang assessed his own troops. Most of them are from obvious poverty. The scars of deprivation mark them in so many ways. Waver bears some of them himself. However some of them are sponsored fighters. They glow in health, conditioning exquisite, and they have the clear advantage.
These are the fighters meant to win. These are the fighters paid to win. It's all a gamble here, but the odds are vastly tilted in favor of a few.
And there flashes light off a pendant in the ring. A man, powerfully built, squaring off against another.
And there, another flash, of another pendant hanging off a man deep in conversation with another.
Both of them bear the Wheel of Fortune.
The announcer rings out-
"... and now, ladies and gentleman, we bring you! Phillip! Versus! Demosthenes!!
Waver ghosts closer. Observation first.
"Why do you keep betting on people like him? You're throwing your money away, Hubert!" The man, with his richly dressed companion moodily watching the ring, crosses his arms, glaring at his companion. "It's not even your money. Your father worked hard for that wealth and you're squandering it. He's a man who can't win!"
The match opens abruptly as they speak; both Phillip and Demosthenes taking a step in and kicking high. Their legs meet in the middle with bone shuddering force, and both immediately drop contact. Phillip takes the initiative and moves in quickly, raining in a series of heavy jabs to Demosthenes' midsection. The other fighter backs up as Phillip pushes forward, turning all strikes aside with open palms.
"Phillip?"
Phillip draws back for a more forceful thrust, and his opponent steps in, catching his wrist and pushing it upwards. Growling, Demosthenes twists his body around for another kick, this one flying for the side of his head. Eyes wide, Phillip bends almost impossibly, and Demosthenes' foot sails over by a handful of inches. The response is immediate. Phillip catches him in the sternum with his free hand, forcing him to release him.
"Yes. Phillip. Hmph. He's half starved. I hear he comes down to win coin to feed the rest of them back in his village. Somewhere at the cusp of the Court- Who cares where that village is. A man like that isn't going to last the night."
Demosthenes jumps back; Phillip chases. His roundhouse kick slams into his opponent's forearm block, and Demosthenes drops low, trying for a leg sweep. Phillip jumps over it, but that starvation is enough. Demosthenes just barely catches his ankle, enough to make him trip, and Phillip aborts his attempt to punch him. Instead he catches himself on the mat with both hands and throws himself out of the way before Demosthenes can take advantage.
"... does it matter?"
There's a barrage of palm strikes, the last striking so hard that it sends Demosthenes stumbling back several feet, tripping over his feet to the bloodstained mat. The recovery is fast, the fighter rolling to his feet and grabbing Phillip by the leg when he tries to kick the other man in the rib cage. Twisting Phillip in a lock, Demosthenes forces him to the mat in turn, back hitting it with a whump and a scream of pain.
"W-what? Of course it matters. I don't want to see you become some sort of pauper. Your family is well established in Kyst, and your scholarship is more than admirable. It's frustrating, that's what it is! You've been blessed in everything and you choose to spend your free time here. Go home to your family. You promised me last time. Why are you here tonight?"
Demosthenes smashes in three body-blows before Phillip recovers, kicking off the ground with enough vicious force to cause the other man to back-peddle two steps backwards. Almost immediately, the fighter throws himself into a jumping windmill kick, and Demosthenes crosses his arms above his head to block the man, gritting at the impact. Knees bend deeply under the impact, and Demosthenes pushes back up, grunting. Rather than unbalancing him, though, it only pushes Phillip back a little and causes him to snarl. As soon as the man's feet hit the ground, they dig in and he springs forward, thrusting his fist for Demosthenes' jaw.
"... I'm here to see if the odds can be beat. You know how they're stacked against men like that."
Demosthenes intercepts the blow, redirecting with a twist of his whole body and throwing Phillip over his hip, with a pant. The form almost seems out of aikido - it is absolutely some sort of soft art. But Phillip refuses to stay down even as the mat shakes with force. It's not a smooth recovery, but there's a light in his eyes that's unholy. He's back on his feet before Demosthenes can press the advantage too far - spittle flying from his lip as he stares his opponent down.
"That's up to Fortuna, isn't it?"
They circle each other, heavily breathing, gulping down controlled amounts of air as the fighters eye each other. Demosthenes seems frustrated as the sweat pours down him. Perhaps he was expecting the match to be over already? But there Phillip stands, unwilling to break and yield.
"Yes. But you asked me why I keep betting on men who can't win. I'm praying for a miracle." Hands go up to clutch his pendant. "We're all the underdogs here... war or not..."
Both rush forward; his right arm meeting the other's left, stopping both dead. Demosthenes goes in for the second punch, a quick jab, but Phillip blocks with a raised knee. Then his off-hand flies forward. Demosthenes leans to the left, trying to get his hand under Phillip's raised leg for a throw, but it's not enough.
"...Hubert... what aren't you telling me..."
Phillip's knuckles strike home squarely and teeth and blood fly. He doesn't wait as Demosthenes' hands come to reflexively clutch at his mouth and he staggers back. One more fist to the stomach, another under the jaw, and it's over.
Demosthenes falls.
Phillip sags spent. Exhausted, a winner, but guaranteed to be defeated in the next match.
And he knows. Knows he's going back with little to nothing.
"You can say I sympathize. I want to hold to that same kind of hope, that even if it seems impossible... just maybe...
There are worse things one can throw away their money to, anyway."
Waver glances in their direction and smiles.
Fate is determined by our choices as much as the winds of chance, is that right, Fortuna?
... there's a lesson I've learned over and over again during the course of my life. God knows I've made some bloody poor choices in the past... and let's be honest, I'm not done with those. And it's no accident there's two men with your pendant. I can choose only one, am I right? They both need help. That's why they're here. You want to see what I do.
... even so, even if I can only choose one, if I can touch both, even indirectly in the case of one, I'll do so.
"Here. I've brought you some water."
Phillip looks up to the man that's entered the fighter's pit, indistinct and haloed in the bright lights all around the ring. A red, fur lined cloak. Well made traveler's leathers. The tell-tale Stars purple of a shirt. Slowly, the man's features become more distinct as Waver moves so the other man doesn't have to squint up him.
There's a full glass in his hands, beads of moisture clinging to the side.
"I'll be back to look at your wounds in a bit. I've got to make the rounds to see how the rest of the competitors are doing and then I'll be right back."
The staff of the Golden Bull are waiting for the hired medic. So as a medic is how Waver will approach, even if he never states he's the one sent for and lets others assume, just as he allowed people to be ruled by their assumptions at the door. A medic is how any of the Emperor's forces who see and recognize him will know him as. He can hear the titters from the crowd watching as he approaches the first fighter, gossiping among themselves about the bouts and the contenders, even as they all pray for Fortuna's favor incessantly.
Good. He wants to hear these people talk about the people he's tending to. Just like he wants to hear the conversations and arguments at the betting tables. They're laughing and making light of this bloodsport, snickering at some of the more unfortunate outcomes - it's all entertainment and a game to pass the time - but they're providing him valuable intelligence for his own strategy and providing him a picture of what they see the odds as.
He has a slightly different outcome in mind.
This first man is a fighter much like Phillip. Poor, fighting for cash, not sponsored by any rich man. He looks up, then away, unwilling to speak to him and eyes dimmed, clutching his ribs as the visible flesh along his side begins to purple and blue amid the angry red it flushed to.
Waver doesn't need him to speak. He adopts Master Rahela's soothing tones as he coaxes the fighter's hands away, restoring both health and stamina. As he does so, he intertwines some subtle advice about his next opponent, gleaned from the conversations around them, and encouragement to cement an unshakable resolve in the face of odds so great. He does this with every disadvantaged fighter, keeping in mind the match ups and where he desires the night to broadly go.
The sponsored fighters get slightly different treatment. He heals wounds but doesn't return them their energy, taking note of the weaknesses he can see both with his eyes and feel under his hands. He also subtly encourages overconfidence and for them to take their more disadvantaged peers more lightly than they should. Evening the playing field hopefully just enough.
The night and the matches go on. Phillip ascends. No one has bothered to speak to him yet. Waver listens, watches, and makes adjustments in tactics and strategy as the competition for the strongest proceeds and fewer and fewer fighters keep rising in glory. And the mood of the watching audience changes slightly as fortune starts to show an outcome that the initial odds didn't seem to favor at all.
Phillip jumps, twisting in mid air, and lands a kick right across his opponent's jaw. Bardylis' head snaps back with force and flying spittle, while he topples sideways to the mat. He sprawls there like a broken toy, breathing shallowly, as the announcer calls Phillip's win to cheers and jeers and curses and calls to Fortuna, before rolling to his side in agony.
Broken jaw. Waver can already see the bones in his face shift unnaturally.
Phillip stands in the middle of the ring, chest heaving, eyes blazing fire even as the blood pours down his face. It's a new type of hunger and determination. It's one borne by hope and the possibility that the future may be alright.
Waver risks a glance to Hubert.
The scholar from Kyst is silent with his friend, eyes slightly wide. The man who cannot win has won again. The people who the bookies call long odds on are making their comeback for tonight.
Phillip won't take this night. Not this night. That's just not how the matches panned out. But he placed higher than anyone would have dreamt. He'll be going home with a sizable purse to feed his village.
And Hubert will go home having not thrown away his money.
So will it be enough to remind him not to throw away hope and stew in resignation? Have the winds of fortune changed in his eyes enough?
Time will tell, perhaps, if his own gamble paid off.
But his choice is made, and even as Bardylis limps towards him, he can see Phillip eyeing him and making ready to approach Waver himself.
"I can't believe they got a Master Restorer for tonight. I heard their medic was drunk off his ass with Acubens' cheap rye, but to bring in someone like you is generally more than we louts get."
Phillip raises an eyebrow, not mentioning the advice Waver was slipping on the side.
Waver hums thoughtfully in turn. A Master? Oh please, his skill and power may have increased drastically (and unnaturally and unnervingly) after the conflict but being a Master is different from mastery and he still has a lot of learning yet. But the fact Phillip can tell speaks of a sharp mind and a history that's possibly a little more than being a poor man just fighting for coin to feed a village.
"Fortuna favored you tonight," Glancing at Phillip's pendant pointedly, Waver continues, "when the house was making the arrangements."
"Hmmm..." the light goes on in Phillip's eyes and he nods in understanding. "That so. Tell ya what. Why don't I take you for a drink after I collect my winnings."
"Certainly. I know just the place."
"This her favorite tavern?" Phillip whistles. "This place? This place has history. It's been the favorite haunt of a few."
"Oh?"
"Yeah... see-" Phillip blinks hard. Waver follows his eyes and groans. No. No. This is embarrassing. "That your friend?"
Gerri laughs as she hoists a bench with two giggling barmaids into the air and curls her free arm to show off her bicep for the ladies. Why, why, does she flirt this way? It's every town! There's a bawdy song in the background, singers drunk and way off tune.
"Yes." Put the women down, Gerri. Please. "Gerri, I'm back, and I brought a friend for a drink. I thought you two should meet, anyway."
"Hoh? Me?"
Phillip's eyes round, as Waver shoots an exasperated look to the grinning woman who's taking care to place the bench and the ladies on it down on the ground with such dainty care, Waver's sure she's doing it on purpose just to be an ass. He glances at his new companion, who stares back a bit confused.
"Phillip, Gerri - hunter and trapper. Gerri, Phillip. He's from the cusp of the Court..."
Waver motions for a few pints as they head to a table. Phillip's here to win money to feed his village and he could use some extra help; Gerri is willing to hunt for barter and not coin, and honestly she could use something to pull her out of the wild more. We only survive together, right, Gerri? It's possible they could help each other, but that's up to them and how they get along.
If they get along. Waver can only provide the chance for potential better fortune. They have to take it and see where it leads.
There's a coin with The Wheel of Fortune pressed into his palm as the conversation goes on and they both start laughing. The promise of answers.
His... if he takes the chance and see where it leads.
[CLOSED/QUEST] I'll show you things I bet you never knew you needed
WHO: Waver Velvet + NPCs
WHAT: A simple invitation to a fight club in Kyst to meet a contact? Nets a somewhat less then simple journey in the quest for answers and fortune's favor...
WHERE: Kyst, The Golden Bull
WHEN: Feb 4
WARNINGS: Violence, moderate description of injury, nicotine withdrawal, the 1%
"I don't really care about the money. Barter is just as good."
Gerri shrugs one massive shoulder as she leads the horse pulling the cart full of her latest kills down the street in Kyst. And Waver's brace of snared rabbits. They've already stopped at the butcher's; next is the tannery and the furrier. The woman, whom Waver is sure descended from bears and is just as large as one, refuses to let nothing go to waste. So they'll go until the cart is completely empty. Then they'll go to Gerri's favorite tavern. Or rather today Waver will join her later after the work is done.
"Too many villages can't afford much anymore thanks to the war. A comfortable bed, a roaring fire, ah! A pretty lass in a sh- there's that face, geez, fine. Anyway, if they do for me, I do for them, simple as that. I might live in the wild most of the time now, but here's a wilderness lesson for you, Frown Lines. Even someone like me can't go it alone. We only survive together."
"I bloody know that, Gerri." It's snapped harsher than Waver likes. He's been in a mood since the battle. So many dead. So many that died under his hands despite his best efforts. "I've only survived thanks to the grace of others. That's always been true."
"Do you? Think you may have learned that one bit wrong. They need you too. Lose people like you and they'll die."
Waver boggles at her, reaching for a retort, while Gerri's brow draws down, facial scars dug deep and more peeking out from the collar of her shirt. One massive hand touches them. She's never told him that story. Avoids it at all costs.
(There's stories Waver's avoiding at all costs.)
"It's true. I should know."
There's an ulterior motive to his visit to Kyst. An unknown note, written in an unknown hand, slipped into his room. It's message was simple: You want for answers and I hope to give them to you. Go to the Golden Bull in Kyst. There is someone there who can point you in the right direction.
Gerri was righteously concerned when she heard the contents. The Golden Bull? Gerri confided she had heard of the place, even if she didn't know exactly where it was. The Golden Bull was a fairly exclusive club given its clientele, she said, and only two types of people were to be found there: the rich with more money than morals, and fighters mostly desperate for coin.
From Stars, from Moon, and from the Neutral territories. People that the Priestess and The Emperor might not want mingling - and Waver supposed, The Warlock did, if he allowed the Golden Bull in his territory at all.
No one really talked about what went on inside openly, for obvious reasons - leaders turning blind eyes only went so far, and that line, Waver reckoned, changed all the time. ("The first rule of Fight Club is: you don't talk about Fight Club, huh?" "You're quoting. Where's that from?" "A movie." "What's a movie?" "Er... let me explain...") Gerri was pretty sure they had heavy security to keep the fights just contained in the ring. Waver himself would bet that each patron could be dangerous in their own way, since information brokers and spies would have a field day with ones so rich.
He had seen how the Emperor had doled out consequences after the battle. The Priestess would be the same. The Warlock naturally too. When dealing with a true person willing to do anything to win, the most dangerous kind of person there is, one had to consider their own limits and what they'd be willing to do to survive.
As he told Izuku, only the naive and the unfettered say anything. He's thought a lot about that since Korra's recorded roar at the Emperor ("then you don't care about saving anything! You just care about winning!") and the fallout, including the tattoo now etched on his arm. Including what happened in the days after that and his conversation with Edelgard. He's walking into a shark tank.
This brings him walking onto this dusty street in Kyst located in the Merchant's District, to discreetly look for the Golden Bull. The story is that he needs to pull a friend out if anyone asks. His wife worries, you see, and has sent him to fetch her wayward spouse. So does Waver, is the silent implication.
The dusty street isn't too dusty, however, and strangely empty considering the time of day, but not so strangely given recent events and with many people still hunkered down or recovering. It gives Waver a good view of things. Everything is shockingly clean and well upkept, a sign of the outrageous wealth being displayed everywhere. It's in stark contrast to the poorer districts of Kyst, far more run down. It's the perfect place to stating looking. He just needs to ask around wisely. Even the children playing might have an answer.
As in response to his musings, a ball bounces by...
Waver's eyes follow and time slows down to a heartbeat as they center:
To the richly dressed child.
-Beat-
To the overloaded cart with barrels trundling by.
-Beat-
The snap of rope binding the cargo to the cart.
-Beat-
The bounce of wheels as the cart rolls over cobblestone.
-Beat-
The barrels--
-Beat-
"WATCH OUT!"
Waver flies, pushing forth with what strength he has left after the battle. So low on mana, he's practically human, and it costs him to throw himself into a desperate dash to the child. The lingering pain from the battle flares but the sudden saturation of adrenaline makes it nothing. It's just lucky he's close.
-Beat-
He makes it in time and by some miracle manages to grab the child and clear the trajectory of the barrels, slamming hard into the stone square and cushioning the girl from the impact. Waver then curls, trying to protect her from any potential debris. Thankfully the barrels hold as they bounce away, people yelping as they avoid their path.
Waver groans as he tries to sit up and the girl in his arms bursts into tears. But his body gives and he flops back, still stunned. It doesn't sound like anyone was hurt, and the noise is starting up as people realize what happened and a few heads poke out of shops. He tries again. Nope. The little girl squirms and wiggles free, finely booted foot slamming into Waver's stomach as she does so - "Oof!" - and Waver rolls and watches without words as she races howling to her mother (Waver thinks dazedly she's her mother, or a merchant, or both) as again he tries to wrench himself to his feet.
No. No damage. No one hurt, except for the mass of bruises he's rapidly becoming. Waver hauls himself up and limps off the street before he attracts a crowd. Kyst is a neutral city, but the people here might not be. As he does so...
"I am not helping one of them! You see his aura! I have cousins at that city..."
"That girl could have been killed. If only her father was around to help watch after her, that spendthrift! It's not even his hard earned money he's wasting down at that club on the waterfront. You know the one facing the main pier. The Golden Bull. Her poor mother's been worked off her feet without him...
... wait, is that his kid?"
"Look, he's fine. See, he's walking. Move on. Go help the driver, instead. He's the one who needs a hand before the horse bolts and causes a disaster."
"Wait... is he one of ours? Shouldn't we help?
Hey! Hey! You! Hold up--- where'd he go?"
Well. That's fortunate. Question answered. Life saving deed rewarded. He now knows where the Golden Bull is. And a little of the current climate thanks to the Emperor's invasion of Moon Territory. All for the cost of bruises and making a bit of a scene in the streets.
And... most importantly... the girl is safe.
Not so fortunate, the Caster decides as he catches himself in a storefront's reflection. Waver groans he pushes through the pain to use Restoration to stop hobbling. Last thing he needs is to go stumbling into something he shouldn't, say one of the makeshift shrines to Death occasionally found along Kyst's streets, and really put his foot in it.
"Shit. I can't go into the place looking like this."
He'll get thrown out. Goddamn exclusive clubs always have standards.
It's nearing nightfall when Waver approaches the Golden Bull, thankfully not limping, thankfully clean and put together, but decidedly shabbier than the rest of the people entering the club. His eye marks the rest of the patrons, dissecting their appearance. All having the markers of wealth and are dressed to their stations, but that's where the similarity ends. Some have the gait of military men - steely eyed and stoic faced - some are certainly diplomats by body language and speech. There's the corporate types and here's the nobility. Old money, nouveau riche, intellectual, mage... Waver breaks down each person that comes into the field of his vision and pieces together who they are and where they come from.
And there's a name reaching to him on the cold salt touched breeze, one murmured again and again in prayer from all entering. Fortuna.
The goddess he's been trying to reach.
So is this place hers?
Maybe, maybe not. But it makes sense to invoke her name in a gambling house, where the winds of fate can make or break a man or woman. Even if he wonders if this place might be the domain of the Devil as well.
Waver sighs, bowing his head in prayer, Strength's reminder echoing through his thoughts: 'I trust that you will be respectful in your investigation. We have all suffered the consequences of a war that is not our own.' Respect it is.
"Sorry I'm late, Fortuna. Please guide me to where I need to go."
He's right on time.
All that glitters is not gold, but the interior of the Golden Bull lives up to its name. There's more gold than any normal person should be comfortable with, nearly obscene with its presence, but Waver walks through as if his surroundings should be expected - nay - no less than he deserves as a patron. It's the kind of environment where his 'sister' would smugly rip into her peers and play her games and plan her tortures, or the kind where Melvin would fritter every bit of his mother's wealth away in foolishness and then go running to mummy's purse for more. It's the kind of environment that Luvia Edelfelt believes she's owed and did create when she seized
A perfect playground for the elite. For Lord El-Melloi II. And even... Zhuge Liang.
But Waver's true peers count among the serving staff.
Having an aristocratic bearing helps in passing without too many judging looks, though. For there are those aplenty even so; the rich so love their sneers of superiority. Mages even more so. But he can pull off the impoverished patrician (fake) Lord here to beg for Fortuna's favor without saying a single word, and let his body language and the meticulous way he wears his Court issued clothes, quality of the Emperor's tailors apparent even if they're worn by the use they've been through, speak for him. He's perfected the illusion of nobility for decades.
A wealthy man down on his luck. The Golden Bull occasionally receives that ilk as well. It's his weapon for now as long as anyone doesn't dwell too long on his aura or fixate on the Emperor's promise tattoo lying hidden for now under his sleeve.
A Lady and her entourage sniff at him as they sweep by, light reflecting off silver crescent moons pinned to their hi-low blowouts as they pass.
There's a charge to the air as he penetrates deeper into the building, and the air grows smoky and sweet. Waver hisses imperceptibly as the crave for nicotine roars through his body. It begins with tingles in his hands and feet and spreads through him, burning into nausea and a headache both like and unlike a magic hangover. The Caster breathes slowly.
He can't indulge. Especially not when he feels like he might have stepped into an Ian Fleming novel. Especially not when he might need his cigars for defense. Especially not when the memory of Master Rahela restoring his lungs as a lesson to the others in the art, causing him to puke black tar, is still so fresh in his mind, as is the scolding following for his smoking habit.
Concentrate.
He can hear some chatter about how they've summoned a healer for the fighters in the background, as their in house medic isn't available. There's heavy security everywhere, though the guards are unobtrusive. It almost reeks of magic how well they disappear into the background. A branch of Illusion to deflect attention? Becoming more possible with the moment as Waver's Discerning Eye takes it in. Armed discreetly. They remind Waver of the Mage Association's Enforcer Division, though. People who don't need weapons - they are the weapons.
The serving staff is intriguing as well. They attract about as much attention as the guards from the wealthy patrons flocking to the arena in the center of the building, but their body guards keep a close eye on them. Shapely and fine women, handsome men - they fit the setting well as they provide their services. Beauty is but another sign of wealth. One circles to him.
Waver gracefully raises a hand when he sees her tray.
"No, thank you. I don't want a drink."
She smiles and moves on, and as she does so, the muscles in her face move just off enough for him to wonder. Illusion? Flat used magecraft to force smiles when he met Waver as a child. Waver's eyes slide to follow her path, narrowing in consideration.
Ah. The air... the charge... there's no overt chatter of the Priestess and the Emperor's actions. Just pleads for Fortuna's benediction.
They're here for the fight. But the War rages on...
The fight bell rings as he steps into the main room.
Platinum bills spill like water from well manicured hands. Who is Fellden's strongest fighter?
He knows this world. He comes from it. He's in the shark tank now.
No one speaks to him, but even now Waver has good ears despite everything about him being weakened and human. He can hear everyone in the room just fine. And he listens to their conversations as he moves throughout the room. That one a Star - Moon - Neutral - they give away more about themselves and their character then they think.
As Reines would say, and he would have to begrudgingly give her because it's such a basic rule of survival in their society, first comes observation before engagement in any sort of social warfare. And this place is a battlefield. What these people care about... is what he finds these people have always cared about.
("- then you don't care about saving anything! You just care about winning!", roars in his head again.)
Waver drifts closer to the fighter's pit while keeping a bead on what's being discussed at the betting table. He's on the hunt for his contact, and above all the jeers and cheers thrown by the spectators as the men grapple, punch, and kick, he finds himself drawn in by the men and women in the ring. Men and women so very different than the people cheering for their blood.
Waver finds no enjoyment in the spectacle. Instead his eyes sweep them, take them in, assess, as Zhuge Liang assessed his own troops. Most of them are from obvious poverty. The scars of deprivation mark them in so many ways. Waver bears some of them himself. However some of them are sponsored fighters. They glow in health, conditioning exquisite, and they have the clear advantage.
These are the fighters meant to win. These are the fighters paid to win. It's all a gamble here, but the odds are vastly tilted in favor of a few.
And there flashes light off a pendant in the ring. A man, powerfully built, squaring off against another.
And there, another flash, of another pendant hanging off a man deep in conversation with another.
Both of them bear the Wheel of Fortune.
The announcer rings out-
"... and now, ladies and gentleman, we bring you! Phillip! Versus! Demosthenes!!
Waver ghosts closer. Observation first.
"Why do you keep betting on people like him? You're throwing your money away, Hubert!" The man, with his richly dressed companion moodily watching the ring, crosses his arms, glaring at his companion. "It's not even your money. Your father worked hard for that wealth and you're squandering it. He's a man who can't win!"
The match opens abruptly as they speak; both Phillip and Demosthenes taking a step in and kicking high. Their legs meet in the middle with bone shuddering force, and both immediately drop contact. Phillip takes the initiative and moves in quickly, raining in a series of heavy jabs to Demosthenes' midsection. The other fighter backs up as Phillip pushes forward, turning all strikes aside with open palms.
"Phillip?"
Phillip draws back for a more forceful thrust, and his opponent steps in, catching his wrist and pushing it upwards. Growling, Demosthenes twists his body around for another kick, this one flying for the side of his head. Eyes wide, Phillip bends almost impossibly, and Demosthenes' foot sails over by a handful of inches. The response is immediate. Phillip catches him in the sternum with his free hand, forcing him to release him.
"Yes. Phillip. Hmph. He's half starved. I hear he comes down to win coin to feed the rest of them back in his village. Somewhere at the cusp of the Court- Who cares where that village is. A man like that isn't going to last the night."
Demosthenes jumps back; Phillip chases. His roundhouse kick slams into his opponent's forearm block, and Demosthenes drops low, trying for a leg sweep. Phillip jumps over it, but that starvation is enough. Demosthenes just barely catches his ankle, enough to make him trip, and Phillip aborts his attempt to punch him. Instead he catches himself on the mat with both hands and throws himself out of the way before Demosthenes can take advantage.
"... does it matter?"
There's a barrage of palm strikes, the last striking so hard that it sends Demosthenes stumbling back several feet, tripping over his feet to the bloodstained mat. The recovery is fast, the fighter rolling to his feet and grabbing Phillip by the leg when he tries to kick the other man in the rib cage. Twisting Phillip in a lock, Demosthenes forces him to the mat in turn, back hitting it with a whump and a scream of pain.
"W-what? Of course it matters. I don't want to see you become some sort of pauper. Your family is well established in Kyst, and your scholarship is more than admirable. It's frustrating, that's what it is! You've been blessed in everything and you choose to spend your free time here. Go home to your family. You promised me last time. Why are you here tonight?"
Demosthenes smashes in three body-blows before Phillip recovers, kicking off the ground with enough vicious force to cause the other man to back-peddle two steps backwards. Almost immediately, the fighter throws himself into a jumping windmill kick, and Demosthenes crosses his arms above his head to block the man, gritting at the impact. Knees bend deeply under the impact, and Demosthenes pushes back up, grunting. Rather than unbalancing him, though, it only pushes Phillip back a little and causes him to snarl. As soon as the man's feet hit the ground, they dig in and he springs forward, thrusting his fist for Demosthenes' jaw.
"... I'm here to see if the odds can be beat. You know how they're stacked against men like that."
Demosthenes intercepts the blow, redirecting with a twist of his whole body and throwing Phillip over his hip, with a pant. The form almost seems out of aikido - it is absolutely some sort of soft art. But Phillip refuses to stay down even as the mat shakes with force. It's not a smooth recovery, but there's a light in his eyes that's unholy. He's back on his feet before Demosthenes can press the advantage too far - spittle flying from his lip as he stares his opponent down.
"That's up to Fortuna, isn't it?"
They circle each other, heavily breathing, gulping down controlled amounts of air as the fighters eye each other. Demosthenes seems frustrated as the sweat pours down him. Perhaps he was expecting the match to be over already? But there Phillip stands, unwilling to break and yield.
"Yes. But you asked me why I keep betting on men who can't win. I'm praying for a miracle." Hands go up to clutch his pendant. "We're all the underdogs here... war or not..."
Both rush forward; his right arm meeting the other's left, stopping both dead. Demosthenes goes in for the second punch, a quick jab, but Phillip blocks with a raised knee. Then his off-hand flies forward. Demosthenes leans to the left, trying to get his hand under Phillip's raised leg for a throw, but it's not enough.
"...Hubert... what aren't you telling me..."
Phillip's knuckles strike home squarely and teeth and blood fly. He doesn't wait as Demosthenes' hands come to reflexively clutch at his mouth and he staggers back. One more fist to the stomach, another under the jaw, and it's over.
Demosthenes falls.
Phillip sags spent. Exhausted, a winner, but guaranteed to be defeated in the next match.
And he knows. Knows he's going back with little to nothing.
"You can say I sympathize. I want to hold to that same kind of hope, that even if it seems impossible... just maybe...
There are worse things one can throw away their money to, anyway."
Waver glances in their direction and smiles.
Fate is determined by our choices as much as the winds of chance, is that right, Fortuna?
... there's a lesson I've learned over and over again during the course of my life. God knows I've made some bloody poor choices in the past... and let's be honest, I'm not done with those. And it's no accident there's two men with your pendant. I can choose only one, am I right? They both need help. That's why they're here. You want to see what I do.
... even so, even if I can only choose one, if I can touch both, even indirectly in the case of one, I'll do so.
"Here. I've brought you some water."
Phillip looks up to the man that's entered the fighter's pit, indistinct and haloed in the bright lights all around the ring. A red, fur lined cloak. Well made traveler's leathers. The tell-tale Stars purple of a shirt. Slowly, the man's features become more distinct as Waver moves so the other man doesn't have to squint up him.
There's a full glass in his hands, beads of moisture clinging to the side.
"I'll be back to look at your wounds in a bit. I've got to make the rounds to see how the rest of the competitors are doing and then I'll be right back."
The staff of the Golden Bull are waiting for the hired medic. So as a medic is how Waver will approach, even if he never states he's the one sent for and lets others assume, just as he allowed people to be ruled by their assumptions at the door. A medic is how any of the Emperor's forces who see and recognize him will know him as. He can hear the titters from the crowd watching as he approaches the first fighter, gossiping among themselves about the bouts and the contenders, even as they all pray for Fortuna's favor incessantly.
Good. He wants to hear these people talk about the people he's tending to. Just like he wants to hear the conversations and arguments at the betting tables. They're laughing and making light of this bloodsport, snickering at some of the more unfortunate outcomes - it's all entertainment and a game to pass the time - but they're providing him valuable intelligence for his own strategy and providing him a picture of what they see the odds as.
He has a slightly different outcome in mind.
This first man is a fighter much like Phillip. Poor, fighting for cash, not sponsored by any rich man. He looks up, then away, unwilling to speak to him and eyes dimmed, clutching his ribs as the visible flesh along his side begins to purple and blue amid the angry red it flushed to.
Waver doesn't need him to speak. He adopts Master Rahela's soothing tones as he coaxes the fighter's hands away, restoring both health and stamina. As he does so, he intertwines some subtle advice about his next opponent, gleaned from the conversations around them, and encouragement to cement an unshakable resolve in the face of odds so great. He does this with every disadvantaged fighter, keeping in mind the match ups and where he desires the night to broadly go.
The sponsored fighters get slightly different treatment. He heals wounds but doesn't return them their energy, taking note of the weaknesses he can see both with his eyes and feel under his hands. He also subtly encourages overconfidence and for them to take their more disadvantaged peers more lightly than they should. Evening the playing field hopefully just enough.
The night and the matches go on. Phillip ascends. No one has bothered to speak to him yet. Waver listens, watches, and makes adjustments in tactics and strategy as the competition for the strongest proceeds and fewer and fewer fighters keep rising in glory. And the mood of the watching audience changes slightly as fortune starts to show an outcome that the initial odds didn't seem to favor at all.
Phillip jumps, twisting in mid air, and lands a kick right across his opponent's jaw. Bardylis' head snaps back with force and flying spittle, while he topples sideways to the mat. He sprawls there like a broken toy, breathing shallowly, as the announcer calls Phillip's win to cheers and jeers and curses and calls to Fortuna, before rolling to his side in agony.
Broken jaw. Waver can already see the bones in his face shift unnaturally.
Phillip stands in the middle of the ring, chest heaving, eyes blazing fire even as the blood pours down his face. It's a new type of hunger and determination. It's one borne by hope and the possibility that the future may be alright.
Waver risks a glance to Hubert.
The scholar from Kyst is silent with his friend, eyes slightly wide. The man who cannot win has won again. The people who the bookies call long odds on are making their comeback for tonight.
Phillip won't take this night. Not this night. That's just not how the matches panned out. But he placed higher than anyone would have dreamt. He'll be going home with a sizable purse to feed his village.
And Hubert will go home having not thrown away his money.
So will it be enough to remind him not to throw away hope and stew in resignation? Have the winds of fortune changed in his eyes enough?
Time will tell, perhaps, if his own gamble paid off.
But his choice is made, and even as Bardylis limps towards him, he can see Phillip eyeing him and making ready to approach Waver himself.
"I can't believe they got a Master Restorer for tonight. I heard their medic was drunk off his ass with Acubens' cheap rye, but to bring in someone like you is generally more than we louts get."
Phillip raises an eyebrow, not mentioning the advice Waver was slipping on the side.
Waver hums thoughtfully in turn. A Master? Oh please, his skill and power may have increased drastically (and unnaturally and unnervingly) after the conflict but being a Master is different from mastery and he still has a lot of learning yet. But the fact Phillip can tell speaks of a sharp mind and a history that's possibly a little more than being a poor man just fighting for coin to feed a village.
"Fortuna favored you tonight," Glancing at Phillip's pendant pointedly, Waver continues, "when the house was making the arrangements."
"Hmmm..." the light goes on in Phillip's eyes and he nods in understanding. "That so. Tell ya what. Why don't I take you for a drink after I collect my winnings."
"Certainly. I know just the place."
"This her favorite tavern?" Phillip whistles. "This place? This place has history. It's been the favorite haunt of a few."
"Oh?"
"Yeah... see-" Phillip blinks hard. Waver follows his eyes and groans. No. No. This is embarrassing. "That your friend?"
Gerri laughs as she hoists a bench with two giggling barmaids into the air and curls her free arm to show off her bicep for the ladies. Why, why, does she flirt this way? It's every town! There's a bawdy song in the background, singers drunk and way off tune.
"Yes." Put the women down, Gerri. Please. "Gerri, I'm back, and I brought a friend for a drink. I thought you two should meet, anyway."
"Hoh? Me?"
Phillip's eyes round, as Waver shoots an exasperated look to the grinning woman who's taking care to place the bench and the ladies on it down on the ground with such dainty care, Waver's sure she's doing it on purpose just to be an ass. He glances at his new companion, who stares back a bit confused.
"Phillip, Gerri - hunter and trapper. Gerri, Phillip. He's from the cusp of the Court..."
Waver motions for a few pints as they head to a table. Phillip's here to win money to feed his village and he could use some extra help; Gerri is willing to hunt for barter and not coin, and honestly she could use something to pull her out of the wild more. We only survive together, right, Gerri? It's possible they could help each other, but that's up to them and how they get along.
If they get along. Waver can only provide the chance for potential better fortune. They have to take it and see where it leads.
There's a coin with The Wheel of Fortune pressed into his palm as the conversation goes on and they both start laughing. The promise of answers.
His... if he takes the chance and see where it leads.
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Date: 2020-01-23 10:46 pm (UTC)From:Gerri shrugs one massive shoulder as she leads the horse pulling the cart full of her latest kills down the street in Kyst. And Waver's brace of snared rabbits. They've already stopped at the butcher's; next is the tannery and the furrier. The woman, whom Waver is sure descended from bears and is just as large as one, refuses to let nothing go to waste. So they'll go until the cart is completely empty. Then they'll go to Gerri's favorite tavern. Or rather today Waver will join her later after the work is done.
"Too many villages can't afford much anymore thanks to the war. A comfortable bed, a roaring fire, ah! A pretty lass in a sh- there's that face, geez, fine. Anyway, if they do for me, I do for them, simple as that. I might live in the wild most of the time now, but here's a wilderness lesson for you, Frown Lines. Even someone like me can't go it alone. We only survive together."
"I bloody know that, Gerri." It's snapped harsher than Waver likes. He's been in a mood since the battle. So many dead. So many that died under his hands despite his best efforts. "I've only survived thanks to the grace of others. That's always been true."
"Do you? Think you may have learned that one bit wrong. They need you too. Lose people like you and they'll die."
Waver boggles at her, reaching for a retort, while Gerri's brow draws down, facial scars dug deep and more peeking out from the collar of her shirt. One massive hand touches them. She's never told him that story. Avoids it at all costs.
(There's stories Waver's avoiding at all costs.)
"It's true. I should know."
There's an ulterior motive to his visit to Kyst. An unknown note, written in an unknown hand, slipped into his room. It's message was simple: You want for answers and I hope to give them to you. Go to the Golden Bull in Kyst. There is someone there who can point you in the right direction.
Gerri was righteously concerned when she heard the contents. The Golden Bull? Gerri confided she had heard of the place, even if she didn't know exactly where it was. The Golden Bull was a fairly exclusive club given its clientele, she said, and only two types of people were to be found there: the rich with more money than morals, and fighters mostly desperate for coin.
From Stars, from Moon, and from the Neutral territories. People that the Priestess and The Emperor might not want mingling - and Waver supposed, The Warlock did, if he allowed the Golden Bull in his territory at all.
No one really talked about what went on inside openly, for obvious reasons - leaders turning blind eyes only went so far, and that line, Waver reckoned, changed all the time. ("The first rule of Fight Club is: you don't talk about Fight Club, huh?" "You're quoting. Where's that from?" "A movie." "What's a movie?" "Er... let me explain...") Gerri was pretty sure they had heavy security to keep the fights just contained in the ring. Waver himself would bet that each patron could be dangerous in their own way, since information brokers and spies would have a field day with ones so rich.
He had seen how the Emperor had doled out consequences after the battle. The Priestess would be the same. The Warlock naturally too. When dealing with a true person willing to do anything to win, the most dangerous kind of person there is, one had to consider their own limits and what they'd be willing to do to survive.
As he told Izuku, only the naive and the unfettered say anything. He's thought a lot about that since Korra's recorded roar at the Emperor ("then you don't care about saving anything! You just care about winning!") and the fallout, including the tattoo now etched on his arm. Including what happened in the days after that. He's walking into a shark tank.
This brings him walking onto this dusty street in Kyst located in the Merchant's District, to discreetly look for the Golden Bull. The story is that he needs to pull a friend out if anyone asks. His wife worries, you see, and has sent him to fetch her wayward spouse. So does Waver, is the silent implication.
The dusty street isn't too dusty, however, and strangely empty considering the time of day, but not so strangely given recent events and with many people still hunkered down or recovering. It gives Waver a good view of things. Everything is shockingly clean and well upkept, a sign of the outrageous wealth being displayed everywhere. It's in stark contrast to the poorer districts of Kyst, far more run down. It's the perfect place to stating looking. He just needs to ask around wisely. Even the children playing might have an answer.
As in response to his musings, a ball bounces by...
Waver's eyes follow and time slows down to a heartbeat as they center:
To the richly dressed child.
-Beat-
To the overloaded cart with barrels trundling by.
-Beat-
The snap of rope binding the cargo to the cart.
-Beat-
The bounce of wheels as the cart rolls over cobblestone.
-Beat-
The barrels--
-Beat-
"WATCH OUT!"
Waver flies, pushing forth with what strength he has left after the battle. So low on mana, he's practically human, and it costs him to throw himself into a desperate dash to the child. The lingering pain from the battle flares but the sudden saturation of adrenaline makes it nothing. It's just lucky he's close.
-Beat-
He makes it in time and by some miracle manages to grab the child and clear the trajectory of the barrels, slamming hard into the stone square and cushioning the girl from the impact. Waver then curls, trying to protect her from any potential debris. Thankfully the barrels hold as they bounce away, people yelping as they avoid their path.
Waver groans as he tries to sit up and the girl in his arms bursts into tears. But his body gives and he flops back, still stunned. It doesn't sound like anyone was hurt, and the noise is starting up as people realize what happened and a few heads poke out of shops. He tries again. Nope. The little girl squirms and wiggles free, finely booted foot slamming into Waver's stomach as she does so - "Oof!" - and Waver rolls and watches without words as she races howling to her mother (Waver thinks dazedly she's her mother, or a merchant, or both) as again he tries to wrench himself to his feet.
No. No damage. No one hurt, except for the mass of bruises he's rapidly becoming. Waver hauls himself up and limps off the street before he attracts a crowd. Kyst is a neutral city, but the people here might not be. As he does so...
"I am not helping one of them! You see his aura! I have cousins at that city..."
"That girl could have been killed. If only her father was around to help watch after her, that spendthrift! It's not even his hard earned money he's wasting down at that club on the waterfront. You know the one facing the main pier. The Golden Bull. Her poor mother's been worked off her feet without him...
... wait, is that his kid?"
"Look, he's fine. See, he's walking. Move on. Go help the driver, instead. He's the one who needs a hand before the horse bolts and causes a disaster."
"Wait... is he one of ours? Shouldn't we help?
Hey! Hey! You! Hold up--- where'd he go?"
Well. That's fortunate. Question answered. Life saving deed rewarded. He now knows where the Golden Bull is. And a little of the current climate thanks to the Emperor's invasion of Moon Territory. All for the cost of bruises and making a bit of a scene in the streets.
And... most importantly... the girl is safe.
Not so fortunate, the Caster decides as he catches himself in a storefront's reflection. Waver groans he pushes through the pain to use Restoration to stop hobbling. Last thing he needs is to go stumbling into something he shouldn't, say one of the makeshift shrines to Death occasionally found along Kyst's streets, and really put his foot in it.
"Shit. I can't go into the place looking like this."
He'll get thrown out. Goddamn exclusive clubs always have standards.
It's nearing nightfall when Waver approaches the Golden Bull, thankfully not limping, thankfully clean and put together, but decidedly shabbier than the rest of the people entering the club. His eye marks the rest of the patrons, dissecting their appearance. All having the markers of wealth and are dressed to their stations, but that's where the similarity ends. Some have the gait of military men - steely eyed and stoic faced - some are certainly diplomats by body language and speech. There's the corporate types and here's the nobility. Old money, nouveau riche, intellectual, mage... Waver breaks down each person that comes into the field of his vision and pieces together who they are and where they come from.
And there's a name reaching to him on the cold salt touched breeze, one murmured again and again in prayer from all entering. Fortuna.
The goddess he's been trying to reach.
So is this place hers?
Maybe, maybe not. But it makes sense to invoke her name in a gambling house, where the winds of fate can make or break a man or woman. Even if he wonders if this place might be the domain of the Devil as well.
Waver sighs, bowing his head in prayer, Strength's reminder echoing through his thoughts: 'I trust that you will be respectful in your investigation. We have all suffered the consequences of a war that is not our own.' Respect it is.
"Sorry I'm late, Fortuna. Please guide me to where I need to go."
He's right on time.
All that glitters is not gold, but the interior of the Golden Bull lives up to its name. There's more gold than any normal person should be comfortable with, nearly obscene with its presence, but Waver walks through as if his surroundings should be expected - nay - no less than he deserves as a patron. It's the kind of environment where his 'sister' would smugly rip into her peers and play her games and plan her tortures, or the kind where Melvin would fritter every bit of his mother's wealth away in foolishness and then go running to mummy's purse for more. It's the kind of environment that Luvia Edelfelt believes she's owed and did create when she seized
Harrod'sCarnac.A perfect playground for the elite. For Lord El-Melloi II. And even... Zhuge Liang.
But Waver's true peers count among the serving staff.
Having an aristocratic bearing helps in passing without too many judging looks, though. For there are those aplenty even so; the rich so love their sneers of superiority. Mages even more so. But he can pull off the impoverished patrician (fake) Lord here to beg for Fortuna's favor without saying a single word, and let his body language and the meticulous way he wears his Court issued clothes, quality of the Emperor's tailors apparent even if they're worn by the use they've been through, speak for him. He's perfected the illusion of nobility for decades.
A wealthy man down on his luck. The Golden Bull occasionally receives that ilk as well. It's his weapon for now as long as anyone doesn't dwell too long on his aura or fixate on the Emperor's promise tattoo lying hidden for now under his sleeve.
There's a charge to the air as he penetrates deeper into the building, and the air grows smoky and sweet. Waver hisses imperceptibly as the crave for nicotine roars through his body. It begins with tingles in his hands and feet and spreads through him, burning into nausea and a headache both like and unlike a magic hangover. The Caster breathes slowly.
He can't indulge. Especially not when he feels like he might have stepped into an Ian Fleming novel. Especially not when he might need his cigars for defense. Especially not when the memory of Master Rahela restoring his lungs as a lesson to the others in the art, causing him to puke black tar, is still so fresh in his mind, as is the scolding following for his smoking habit.
Concentrate.
He can hear some chatter about how they've summoned a healer for the fighters in the background, as their in house medic isn't available. There's heavy security everywhere, though the guards are unobtrusive. It almost reeks of magic how well they disappear into the background. A branch of Illusion to deflect attention? Becoming more possible with the moment as Waver's Discerning Eye takes it in. Armed discreetly. They remind Waver of the Mage Association's Enforcer Division, though. People who don't need weapons - they are the weapons.
The serving staff is intriguing as well. They attract about as much attention as the guards from the wealthy patrons flocking to the arena in the center of the building, but their body guards keep a close eye on them. Shapely and fine women, handsome men - they fit the setting well as they provide their services. Beauty is but another sign of wealth. One circles to him.
Waver gracefully raises a hand when he sees her tray.
"No, thank you. I don't want a drink."
She smiles and moves on, and as she does so, the muscles in her face move just off enough for him to wonder. Illusion? Flat used magecraft to force smiles when he met Waver as a child. Waver's eyes slide to follow her path, narrowing in consideration.
Ah. The air... the charge... there's no overt chatter of the Priestess and the Emperor's actions. Just pleads for Fortuna's benediction.
They're here for the fight. But the War rages on...
The fight bell rings as he steps into the main room.
Platinum bills spill like water from well manicured hands. Who is Fellden's strongest fighter?
He knows this world. He comes from it. He's in the shark tank now.
No one speaks to him, but even now Waver has good ears despite everything about him being weakened and human. He can hear everyone in the room just fine. And he listens to their conversations as he moves throughout the room. That one a Star - Moon - Neutral - they give away more about themselves and their character then they think.
As Reines would say, and he would have to begrudgingly give her because it's such a basic rule of survival in their society, first comes observation before engagement in any sort of social warfare. And this place is a battlefield. What these people care about... is what he finds these people have always cared about.
("- then you don't care about saving anything! You just care about winning!", roars in his head again.)
Waver drifts closer to the fighter's pit while keeping a bead on what's being discussed at the betting table. He's on the hunt for his contact, and above all the jeers and cheers thrown by the spectators as the men grapple, punch, and kick, he finds himself drawn in by the men and women in the ring. Men and women so very different than the people cheering for their blood.
Waver finds no enjoyment in the spectacle. Instead his eyes sweep them, take them in, assess, as Zhuge Liang assessed his own troops. Most of them are from obvious poverty. The scars of deprivation mark them in so many ways. Waver bears some of them himself. However some of them are sponsored fighters. They glow in health, conditioning exquisite, and they have the clear advantage.
These are the fighters meant to win. These are the fighters paid to win. It's all a gamble here, but the odds are vastly tilted in favor of a few.
And there flashes light off a pendant in the ring. A man, powerfully built, squaring off against another.
And there, another flash, of another pendant hanging off a man deep in conversation with another.
Both of them bear the Wheel of Fortune.
The announcer rings out-
"... and now, ladies and gentleman, we bring you! Phillip! Versus! Demosthenes!!
Waver ghosts closer. Observation first.