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Fiavel stood with her back against a tree, her arms folded and one foot up, seemingly indifferent to the spectacle around her. She wore a hooded forest green cloak pulled close around her, her bare knee parting the cloth enough to for one to tell she was lightly armed this night. However, it was her reputation as the Ice Witch that kept most of the bandits at a slight, but noticeable, distance.

With the fight over, Fia pushed away from the tree in time to grab the arm of a small, frightened man. "Pay up," she growled with a grin, as he stuttered and reached into a hidden purse to pass her three silver marks. Taking them, she studied them for a moment before pocketing her winnings. "Pleasure doing business. Perhaps you would care for another wager?" She poked her thumb at the next set of fighters to enter the ring, but received an frightened shake of his head as her answer. "Pity. I was going to bet on the Captain..."

She let him go reluctantly, the poor b*****d had little realized who'd he'd made the bet with originally, being drunk at the time he'd sidled up to her and attempted to get fresh. She'd made a bet with him, that if wished to merely lose some money and not his manhood, he better pray like hell the fighter she picked won.

Tonight was getting interesting. She'd purposely picked the one that looked to have the least chance of the two, and surprisingly (if but barely) he did win. The sum of money, a small fortune for a thief (especially a drunk one), was also no small feat. She wondered how he'd come across it, but no matter, it was best to not know details.

Pulling the hood of her cloak up against the bit of chill, she made her way through the crowd with no real purpose in mind. Least till she spotted the unmistakable figure of Cairne sitting at stump table, sipping something. A bit of a smile poked at the corners of her mouth as she joined him...after nabbing else's drink for herself.

"Any ideas?" she asked, thumbing the area the fighters were. "Captain seems the best choice, if a bit obvious..."

Screams and shouts of pain came from the ring. It drew Cairne from his plotting momentarily as he gazed through the crowd to see what was going on. Apparently there was an upset with the way the match was going. He grinned into his cup and swallowed a mouthful of the almost too warm water.

People seemed to be flittering through the crowd, as expected. Wagers, bragging, and even heckling was all around him interwoven in the din of the beautiful chaos. It was music to him in the hallowed night's heat. A bit unrefined and rough around the edges, but take away the blood, sweat, pain, and replace the cotton with silk and it could almost be played by a quartet in the palace halls. Maybe there really was music off in the distance. Cairne wouldn't bet his life on it, nor even a copper on it at this point. Betting was against his prinicples -- it was too easy to win when you already rigged each fight.

Almost in a daze he glanced at the elf that addressed him. He knew her. Even better, she knew him. He raised an eyebrow for a moment, and just grinned. " Oh, none will make it out alive. We have the races tomorrow to look forward to, Fiavel" That careless happy smile was laced with a promise of absolute disaster for those captured patrols, especially as he jumped into the lazy lope of the elf's name. His eyes fell once again to the pit as he heard a sickening crunch, scream of pain, and a cheer of victory from a good chunck of the crowd. "Though it seems like the lieutenant might need a 'hand' after this. "

There was a moment where he thought he would burst into laughter. Somehow he managed not to. Gods only knew that puns ( sometimes) would get the better of him when he was trying to lay low in the den of theives. Still, he smiled, tipped his cup of water forward, clinked the edge on the stolen mug and took a sip. With another almost effortless gesture, he ruffled his vibrantly red hair until it stuck up all over the place to cool himself off. Really, wearing heavy shrouds in summer was a pain. Useful, they were. But a pain they ended up being once no breeze graced the trees.

A prickle on the back of his neck told him someone saw him. Eyes snapped up and his body tensed ready to defend and protect, but soon he relaxed and straightened. Altais... Cairne knew the assassin by reputation and through association. That didn't mean he trusted him. No. He did, however, trust that the work would get done in the alloted time or less and then with either a mess or none at all should the job require it. Cairne also figured the 'blind' man could see just fine by the way he weaved through the crowds... That and he kinda sensed the mangic in that bandage over the man's eyes. It was faint, it could have been blood, or Cairne was making one mighty guess. Then again, Cairne really didn't care. It wasn't any of his business until it became his business...and then that business would be wishing it wasn't his buisness. Or however that saying goes. Too bad cement was too expensive to make bunny slippers out of.

That momentary distraction was all but a distraction. And an idea struck him. " You know, Fiavel..." he said as his eyes slid off the equal and back to the lady before him, " There hasn't been a Battle Royal in a long time. My garden needs weeding too. Too many young shoots, and too many weeds. A... free for all who wish to participate of course. " That said, he pulled out a couple of silver bits, set them on the table, and held them to the wood as he smiled at the woman. "How about a little bet? My pick against yours. I pick the blind man, if he wills it. "

The man caught the tail end of the Other King's words, and felt a smile threaten to touch his features. A Battle Royale? Oh, he hadn't been able to let loose in a long, long time. Not since the Lands Below, when he became the Hand of Ervael and that was . . . five, six years ago? He tilted his head to the side, pondering his past for several moments. Yes, six years. When the grime of the city was awash with blood and flame, wails and screams of fear and lust and rage. The man fought back a shiver and closed his blue eyes, the pounding in his head warning him that soon Red from those within the make-shift arena would be painted in stark contrast on the inner folds of the silk covering his eyes.

Altais' tongue ran over his lower lip as he paced forward silently. Granted, it was hard to be heard in this racket, but even if it were the deep of winter in a forest lined with dead branches, he would sound like nothing more than the sigh of the wind, a creak of a snow-burdened branch. He stopped when his chest was nearly pressed against the shapely elf's back, stopping his tall frame so his lips were almost touching the top curve of her ear. Arms loose, hands held with his palms outwards in case the woman took fright, he spoke quietly, softly, into her ear. "A fledgling Flimp against a blind man?" He, of course, knew all the names for all of the different careers of these men -- a Flimp was a simple snatcher. The man's voice was odd, it's lilting, canting cadence going from a baritone to a soprano mid-syllable, with almost no rhyme or reason, so high was his anticipation. "What chance would I possibly have?"

He took a deep breath, allowing the -- albeit smelly -- cool night air to seep into his lungs, his very being, calming himself. He sidestepped before the woman could turn in alarm if that was her will, turning smartly on the ball of his right foot and pushing hard off of the ground, driving into a backwards lunge. He landed in a cat-like crouch a foot to the right of Cairne, cloak billowing, the long, belled sleeves belted to his lean biceps covering all but his slightly-pointed nails. He rose tipping his head to the side in a nod to the Other King, standing tall, proud, and in much better control of his desires, which his voice reflected. Now it was simply a smooth mid-tone; neither remarkable or forgettable. "I graciously accept your offer." He used neither honorific nor title; he simply didn't care. He knew that Cairne was aware that Altais understood him, and that was all that was needed between them. At least as far as Altais himself was concerned.

The assassin turned his head this way and that, as if searching for the opponent the elf had chosen for him. A small, almost bitter smile tainted his lips as he looked in Fiavel's general direction. "I'm afraid I can't quite pick him out, Elf. I suppose I shall only know him after I am in the ring." Though he did indeed feign blindness, it wasn't a complete charade. The monochrome factor of the magicked fabric caused most things to be a blur in varying degrees of white, gray, and black. Of course, Altais didn't even need sharp sight to dispatch nine-tenths of his opponents, even if the numbers were against him. No, only when the blindfold revealed an eye did things get tricky.

There was something special about his eyes; a Geas burned into them from when he had been the product of Alchemy research when he was an orphaned child. When he allowed his blindfold to even show a single, icy-blue orb, a fear so cold, so piercing struck through the heart of his opponents. They could see the unbridled insanity, that swallowing, yawning, great maw of darkness barely held in check, could see the swirling, chaotic hysteria, the primal hunger for pain, for blood. Then . . . then they were trapped within a maelstrom of delirium if their mind was not strong enough. And when the blindfold came entirely off, they were thrown into his own mind; a place with no order, no reason, void of all logic save for what the assassin himself considered reality. They were only trapped there for mere heartbeats, but that would leave them dazed for precious seconds while the assassin completed his bloody work.

Of course, his Geas had to be triggered -- it wasn't as if he could just look at someone and send them into some deranged hallucinations, no. It took copious amounts of violence, and the taste of blood on his tongue and in the back of his throat, along with an exertion of his own moderate Skill. Of course, that was the only thing he could use his Skill for, save minor Firestarting. But that didn't bother him in the slightest; as long as he kept his feet on the edge of that overwhelming, starving pit of maniacal delirium within his mind and didn't falter, the only thing he needed his Skill for was his Geas and retaining what little sanity he had left.

And yet . . . Altais hated to reveal his eyes without Awakening his Geas. Those who were strong enough to withstand him, especially those with the Skill, would find that small, scared presence residing in the farthest reaches of the abyss that was his mind and bring it to the forefront, causing him to see the world with reason and horror at what he could do once more. Cairne was one of two people he had ever met who would be steady enough to stand strong against the mental onslaught that the assassin's eyes could unleash. Of course, Altais had never tested this, knowing that he would be changed in some fundamental way or another from the contact. He knew that Cairne was easily able enough, and he was warily acceding to the man because of that.

But all others . . . The assassin closed his eyes, tipping his head back, shaggy black hair lifting in a faint breath of stale wind. They always succumbed to the beast within him. They would meet his gaze and find themselves lost within heaving, raging hallucinations composed of nothing save for madness and frenzied psychosis. Oh, yes. He would hear their mental screams of anguish, while their mouths gaped open in silent wails, their pupils so dilated until only a small rim of color could be seen. Their bodies would arch, as if in ecstasy, their hearts racing, pumping blood out of their nose, from their ears, biting their tongues.

And no matter how much they tried, they couldn't tear their gaze away from his. He could see it all; their fear, their absolute, undeniable, instinctual and seemingly-unending terror of what was happening. He could smell it, too -- the hot, iron scent of the blood forced from them, the stale stink of sweat mixed with, in most cases, the acrid stench of urine. And he could feel it. Oh, Gods, could he feel it. Every spike of hallucinated agony, every laceration of their spirit as his insanity defiled the core of their beings. He could feel their aching, rending misery, their utter loss of hope and pure, unadulterated helplessness that it would never end, that they would be trapped there with him for all eternity, with nothing but themselves and --

Altais found himself panting, slim fingers flexing and clenching, could feel the world swirl and tilt around him for several moments. The ground seemed to heave beneath him, threatening to buckle his legs, and his slightly-filed canines drew the copper taste of blood from a vein in his tongue. The assassin's chest rose and fell rapidly with each breath, his heart thundering in his ears, entire body aching, lusting for that basic, primal need to take someone like that again. Altais fought down a groan and placed a hand on a hired muscle's broad shoulder to steady himself -- the contact lasted for the blink of eye, but that was enough. All of his channels had been wide open.

A rending, tearing scream split the air for the span of two heartbeats before fading into a whimper and then silence. Altais looked askance at the man as he crumpled to the ground and bit his lower lip to keep himself from baring his teeth in a lupine grin. Almost piously, the assassin sank into a crouch, placing his hand once again on the man's shoulder, speaking to him in a low undertone for only his ears. The brute nodded and swallowed several times, his pupils dilated almost obscenely, before shakily rising to his feet. His expression one of absolute solemnity, Altais nodded at the man, dusted his hands off on his riding breeches, and rose before once more turning to face the elf-lady.

"What chance could I possbily have?

Fia had her cup halfway back to her mouth, when she felt something…no, someone…press up against her back. His hot breath tickled her ear as she sat there frozen, her eyes locked on Cairne’s own. The blind man… was her only thought as she listened to his voice. His voice…she couldn’t really describe that voice, she was having a hard time figuring out how a man could have such a range with no real reason to it. The effect was paralyzing and tantalizing at the same time, touching the fear deep inside her and making her shiver, while at the same time curious about just who and what he was.

She felt him move away, and slowly setting down her cup, she turned a little in time to watch him vault over the table to Cairne’s side. She watched him hungrily as he ‘scanned’ the crowd. Speed, agility, no movement seemed wasted. She wondered just how blind he was. Did it matter? She was sure he’d waste ¾ of the people there before someone managed to nick him, with or without sight.

All she was for sure about was that the fight ahead was going to be interesting. Her ‘champion’ had no chance, but then again, she’d not expected him to have one. She knew Cairne enough to know he had a reason for all he did, and he’d not of picked a blind man on a slim chance. She had merely to look at the scars that decorated his body as proof of that fact. Her attention for a second drifted to the Shadow King as she wondered if he was trying to impress her, though that was a bit of a silly thought, still…she was curious. Perhaps nothing more than a festive mood, and that led her to smirk a little. It was truly a night for ‘fun’.

Sitting back on her seat a little, she crossed her arms and turned her attention back to the blind man as he tried to taunt her into anger, but instead returned his jab with a grin. “Wrong. I never said you had no chance, I said let him prove himself against a blind man,” she said, hooking a thumb at the kid she’d named before. “The Shadow King’s not that stupid to waste a thieves’ fortune without having some knowledge on his side. Neither am I stupid, I knew I’d already lost the bet as soon as he laid the terms on the table. I’m just curious merely about the why behind you.”

She reached to take a sip, disappointed to see no much more than a swallow sloshing about inside. Tipping it back, she emptied the cup contemplating momentarily what to do with it, before Cairne interrupted her thoughts with the instructions to send her ‘champion’ to the ring. Smiling, she wordlessly shoved the silver his way as she stood and moved soundlessly away (not hard in this raucous crowd) towards the kid. As a shrill whistle sounded, silencing all but a single goat’s plaintive bleating somewhere in the camp, she quickly used the crowd’s hesitation to circle around behind through the press of sweat and flesh. She was going to need a bath after this…long and hot.

She waited till Cairne’d finished before grabbing the back of the boy’s collar, hissing into his ears that her money rode on his victory, and he’d do well not to disappoint her. The kid, surprised at the female voice, turned with lust in his eyes thinking of what his ‘prize’ might be if he won. He started to lift one hand to reach for a little grope, but the fear that crossed his face made her feral grin all the wider. “Make me proud, and maybe…maybe you’ll get lucky, dove.” He swallowed hard, only moved after she gave him a hard shove and a playful swat to the rump. By how high he jumped, and the speed he put on to get away, made her love her reputation all the more.

Still...he might of been fun, but not now. The poor fool was a dead man walking, his life now measured in minutes instead of years. Looking around, she had the momentary thought of just how many around her suffered the same unknown fate but banished it quickly. No good was brought by wasting time on the inevitable.

Pulling her cloak lightly against her, she started to make her way back through the press of filth and flesh, casually lifting another man's drink as she did so giving him no time do a thing but wonder what'd happened to his cup. Putting it to her nose, she wrinkled it in disgust...vinegar. This wine was good for little now. Looking around, she stopped another man about to pass her and swapped her cup for his. She grinned at his blank stare, poked his nose and slipped into the crowd once more.

Reappearing back at their table, she pushed her cloak back and leaned against a close tree, crossing one leg over the other. She eyed the blind man once more before nodding to Cairne. "Perhaps...it's to give the prisoners some hope of escape. Makes the Race more fun when they think they have a chance, does it not? Freedom may never be theirs again, but an opponent is more fun to battle if they don't know that..."

He regarded the elf for about two seconds. Indeed, he did have a plan. He couldn't spill the beans just quite yet... And that little voice that remained of his concious was sorry for what he had to pull just then. He was the king. He did what he had to do.

At his nod, he glanced at Fiavel. "Save my seat... " He stood up, disapearing into the throng of people, sliding his way through, slipping through those shadows.

Cairne had to get a closer look. He had to see everything. He had to know if he was right.

Cold eyes of blue stared hard and long, ignoring the screams and cheers from the crowd, even to the point that he didn't care when some drunk heavy brute threw an arm around his shoulders and pointed to the blind man saying something about not getting on the badside. Or was it a dark alley? He didn't care. The drunk had lost interest in the silent man and instead threw his arm around the other more drunken neighbor.

With an absent gesture, he brushed the brute's stench off him. The broadsword weilder... Cairne was looking close at the fallen man. But would he breech normal protocle and step into the ring? Fingers brushed his lips as he pondered this, catching the assassin's eye and sensing that he wanted to end it. The boy on the floor was in too much pain to survive the surgery. Cairne really had to admire the skill, though it was rather showy and much more of a internal pleasure thing to disembowl an 'innocent bystander'.

Then again, every single one of the men here deserved it. Perhaps half of the women. Hell, Cairne laughed and smirked to himself just thinking about the 'law' and what would be done to himself--let alone half of his closer aquaintances. He could tell the horror in those eyes of the boy of a lifetime scar forming. He lost his best friend... Poor kid.

Cairne smoothed his shirt out, and took a bold step into the ring. There wasn't silence... apparently folks wanted to know what was going on. He took a small glance, a worn and dirty ( clean, but stained from use) cloth was pulled from his pocket as he knelt to touch and expect, muttering soft condolenaces to the 'slain' boy. Mainly, he was inspecting the neck and found what he was looking for.

He just smiled at Altias. "Gut the other. This one lives. I want his neck intact. And a bow around the brow. " Cairne watched both boys go pale ( or paler in the case of the poor broadswordsman). He clicked his tongue, and took a few moments to really inspect the poor gutted lad. "But at least you didn't sever his spine. Give it a month, and he'll be back on the bellows." Cairne blinked as the larger lad passed out. Oops. Doctor...right...um.. where was he again?

"Ah... Well, I guess it would be time to start the race. " A rise of cheers stirred and soon the throngs of men that surrounded the arena began clearing out to the 'stocks' where the 'horses' were kept. Their attention was elsewhere, who cared about the hurt man anyways?

Cairne watched silently as a quiet figure moved forward with gut and a steril needle..and something that smelled like steril liquid of disgustingness. Smelled like a surgon, must be a surgon. It didn't matter in the long run. Cairne frowned again and stared off --not to the throngs of people-- into the darkness of the not so quiet forest. He could feel many eyes upon him, hidden in the great trees. It wasn't important right now, he had other priorities. A cold look was given again to the 'blind' assassin. "Hmm... there will be a lot of blood before all of this is over." He seemed to almost laugh cheerily about this revelation. There was no point about being all depressed about it.

After all... This was exactly what he wanted. It was just under the wrong puppet master. That would change; even if he had to make a plea to the enemy, it would change. The happy thought made him smile like a kid in a candystore, perhaps even chuckle.

Manga watched everything silently from the tree branch she was perched on, absorbing the scenes in front of her as clearly as her eyes would allow. If she wasn't so busy, she might've toyed with the thought of joining in the party below.

It wasn't long before the stick of charcoal in her hand became a flurry of movement, dancing across her sketchbook like the blind fighter in the ring. When she drew the broadswordsman in his gutted state, a voice in the back of her mind said that she should be retching, that she couldn't possibly benefit from drawing such a picture. She ignored that little tidbit and wrote some notes next to the picture. She drew yet another picture of the blind man, this time without his lupine smile. She couldn't help wondering if she would've ended up like him if she'd chosen that profession. Or maybe she'd simply be dead.

Next was an idle sketched the surgeon before fixing her attention on the Other King himself. He had turned and was now staring in the forest's general direction. It was picture perfect. Only when she had finished that portrait did she hop down, landing a few feet from an elven woman. "This has been quite the party..." And the fun was just beginning, by the looks of it. She sat down so she could still see the ring, wanting to capture the finale of the fight the others had lost interest in. She almost felt like a child waiting to open a birthday present. The blind man was an extremely intriguing character, after all... as was the man he appeared to take orders from. And the Ice Witch to her left, for that matter. This gathering was a gold mine for interesting characters, it seemed.

Maybe after this, she would try her luck at finding a good viewing point to watch these Races that everyone was so hyped up about...

Altais eyed Cairne critically for a moment at the man's command. He did not ally himself with the Other King, nor did he take orders from him. The two simply had an understanding -- a respect -- of sorts, and they each found something that was mutually beneficial in the other. Icy eyes narrowing underneath the silk fabric of his blindfold, he hesitated before nodding at the man."You didn't give a manner in which you would like their deaths. I will take the pickpocket as my own." He waited for Cairne's answering nod before turning to face Flimp once again.

Kill the other. Kill the other. Kill. Kill. Kill. KillkillkillkillkillkillkillkillKILL!

Without a single noise, the motionless man sprang into action, leaping four feet into the air and towards the Flimp. He saw the kid's eyes widen, his mouth form a silent 'o,' and then he was slamming the child's sternum with his bent knees, knocking him backwards into the dirt. He almost-casually flipped each twin blade, reversing them in his grip, and grabbed the boy's wrists in his hand, wrenching them up over his head, straining the sockets of his shoulders. Flimp started sobbing, shaking his head from side to side, plaintively begging Altais to stop, to let him live, that he'd do anything. Yet his words were unheard. Altais glanced over each shoulder, noticing the crowd had turned their attention away. Cairne wandered off back into the crowd, and the assassin shrugged. He would play with this child for a moment and then follow after. He noticed several were still watching, so he turned slightly, ensuring that his face was hidden from most of them.

He returned his attention to the boy, and he gently let the child go, rising gracefully to his feet. Flimp scrambled up to his knees and started babbling about how he'd give the man anything -- riches, women, land. Altais merely smiled. "Look at you, you miserable fool. Get off your knees, your prayers fall upon deaf ears. The Gods've turned their backs on you -- Heaven's gates are shut, and now you're knocking on the door of demons." The assassin hooked two fingers over the hem of his blindfold and revealed a single, blue-white glacial eye. A blinding flash of light accompanied the gesture, and a cackling, crazed and howling laughter seemed to emanate inside the skulls of those who happened to catch a glimpse of his eye. Flimp met his gaze, and immediately his pupils dilated until there was only a small ring of color within.

The assassin drew the child down into the chaos of his mind, and Flimp was thrown around horrors so dark it made him vomit all over the ground. Gingerly, the man stepped to the side, and ruffled the child's hair. Flimp let out a primal, animal-sounding wail, and the man stepped around behind him. He squatted down, knees on either side of Flimp's ribs, and tenderly slit his throat. Hot blood steamed as it splattered onto the dirt, the pool growing larger with each passing heartbeat. Flimp let out a gurgling moan and a whimper, and then toppled forward onto his face. Altais bent his head and whispered a sentence in a flowing, writing language, and the boy's tortured, now-insane soul was his as Flimp's last breath was taken. Altais shuddered, letting out a barely audible moan of pure, unadulterated satisfaction, and rose gracefully from his crouch. The assassin cleaned his blades on the kid's clothes and slipped them effortlessly back into the sheaths on his belt, turned smartly on his heel, and stalked off into the crowd after Cairne.

His eye glowed with an unearthly, cold light until he gently pulled the mottled silk of his blindfold back up, painting the world once more in monotonous, ashen hues. He glanced behind him to ensure none were following, and noticed three pairs of eyes on him as he stalked off. A smirk turned the corners of his lips as he bent his head, following the barely-discernible trail Cairne's soul had left amidst the mass of people. He would do the man a favor and ensure his safety from the shadows, as was his place.

Yes, he had definitely found something beneficial in the Other King; someone who would let him do as he pleased, and someone who didn't ask any questions about him whatsoever. No wonder they got along so well.