Waves of silver, the obsidian deceit hidden beneath the sheen; the "Lady Allaspira" was apologizing for her unavoidable tardiness. Dore had heard such words before, in similar circumstances; Shalisa would be stroking his hand as her voice stroked his ego.

Spikes of red, wrapped in Ardan’s light; Ostabalon’s angry response, tempered by his lust. Dore could imagine his temple throbbing a rhythmic crimson, as it had been all night. His eyes would be furtively gaping at the woman – the copper skin beneath the tight, brass mesh of her gown, the deep ruby hair bound in an intricate, braided coil.

Subtle twists of emerald joined her silver, tinged by hollow purple; Shalisa quelling his bluster with unspoken promises, never to be kept. Dore knew that the woman would have the Zandir licking her slippered feet in short order. It was time to attend to other matters, her own task for the evening.

Maneuvering her way through the crowd posed some small degree of difficulty. Among her people, Dore was considered slender – emaciated even, by the less charitable. Her curious station in life demanded such a physique, however distasteful. A thin Bodor, nevertheless, was still too large around the belly to squeeze through this swarm with comfort. She did indeed miss knowing comfort.

With more than five thousand people in attendance, it took her several long minutes to locate the first target. She had to discount four other Ispasians before she located the proper voice: Ispmar e Khen, fifth son of the eighth most prosperous mercantile family in the Empire. With but several seven thousands worth of assets, the man had opted to finance a collection of inexpensive and unlikely projects. This particular robe was that of agent to a Kang of considerable repute. The gladiator herself was nowhere in sight. That was a boon; such a persistent background of crimson would have muted the words of importance.

Dore struck up a touch of idle chatter with an intoxicated, young Cymrilian in order to appear occupied to potential observers. It would not do to stand blankly among the mob, even if the target of her attention would be impossible to identify with accuracy. The apprentice wizard exclaimed at lengths end about the gala decorations, sipping aquavit with tasteless haste. She nodded politely, interjected appropriate comments, focused her eyes on the admittedly attractive face, and watched closely to Ispmar’s conversation with a pair of local dignitaries.

The hue of smokk plumage, only minutely blackened; the Zandir were openly probing for gambling prospects. They had likely spent the early evening, and would surely direct the remainder of their attendance, towards acquiring as much information as possible regarding as many contenders as possible.

Silver and black; she had come to admire the pairing of those hues, so often had they been matched in her experience. This particular pattern spoke of the Ispasian’s subtle calculations, placing these prospectors as yet additional probabilities in a vast field of numbers. She was learning nothing from this distance; she deftly shifted her companion in a lazy spiral until she was able to identify specific words.

Chances/expectations, first round, unknown opponent.; a cautious swirl of beige and lime. The obvious question now.

Crimson horde, fifteen campaigns, decapitation; amber over slate over deep evening blue. A casual, self-assured response, covering a fatalistic sorrow of wasted lumens. Ispmar was certain the Kang would lose in the first round.

Dore waited several minutes longer, anticipating further indications for this certainty. The Ispasian’s words tinted a pale red at the mention of another warrior’s injury. Such uncharacteristic emotion; she almost laughed aloud at the thought that the man might actually have a nerve to hit.

She volunteered to find the Cymrilian another glass and parted with his bewildered gratitude. If she found a servant with loaded tray, she might even spare the time to grant him that small favor. For the moment, she wandered obtusely towards the second target on her mental list, her bluster readily audible across a great span of the southern grounds, at the south-western edge.

The Danuvian – AnDenna AnDan – was in conversation with Zzabul himself, and her display of words, tone, and posture pronounced to the masses enjoying the verbal sparring that she was truly a threat to the Sauran. To Dore’s sound-sight, such was assuredly not the case. AnDan was holding her own through shear bravado, but her hues told plainly that she had no shred of confidence in her defiant predictions. For a warrior of another race, Dore would not be inclined to trust the being’s self-judgment. Yet Danuvians learned well to know their limitations; such lessons were the foundation of their skill. AnDan was not a true contender. Her fate would have to be her own.

Dore observed a while longer, enjoying the swagger and hoping to learn something new about Zzabul. The male was as imposing as she had been told. He was distracted, however, and it was tempting to kill him. She checked the impulse and moved on.

The Ahazu never spoke, but she could track the sound of the Marukan’s voice. To her ear, his was the only such fountain of dejection at the gala. Even among a crowd of this grand size, his people were too lowly to secure invitations.

She had expected to find the Phantasian girl with them; she had been told that the Ahazu followed her like a drac. Viewing the measured tones of the juggler had been a pleasant surprise. Against her better judgment, she decided to join their discourse.

"Gentlesire Alom," she said with deference, "May I be allowed the privilege of introduction?"

He responded in Bodorian, heavily accented: "Those of your people are always welcome in my heart."

It would be impolite to continue in a language the others did not understand; she said, in Talislan, "Your performance I saw earlier; the pattern of your spheres was Bodorian. I was rightfully amazed."

The Marukan called Dismal and the girl called Miri spoke at once, both with pure verdant hue. Neither had known that he had Bodorian instruction; both asked how this had come to be.

"Oh, it was just a child’s rhyme I used in my act. Nothing complex. I learned a bit from a Bodor friend of my mother’s, when I was a child. They performed together occasionally." Sarista skin beneath the lesser sun; humility towards a matter of little importance. Or so it appeared to Dore. If he knew more of her language than he implied, he could be capable of deceiving her sight.

She allowed Zembermari to make introductions, giving Sola E’Am as her name. She gradually steered the conversation towards the Ahazu; "... and always he acts like that? As if that which surrounds him does not meet his awareness?"

Dismal made a helpless gesture, hands spread wide and empty. He looked at the creature, rigid as a corpse, then at the top of Miri’s head. "Grinner doesn’t care much about other people. Only the kid, here. He’s always looking out for her." A patchwork of dark shades told that he masked his own confusion.

She probed further: "But in the arena there are changes? My imagination finds it difficult to picture him in combat."

Zembermari appeared to be inquisitive as well. Dismal added a shrug to the gesture, looked at the Grinner again, stared into the almost-dark sky not yet strung with the moons. "Never seen anything like him." As pure as Shalisa’s complexion. Considering the company the Marukan kept, she would have to be watchful of this one.

She studied the Ahazu as the discussion sauntered among less weighty topics; for that reason, she learned immediately that something was amiss – without forewarning he was between Miri and the danger.

Zzabul and AnDan were not truly distant, and she saw some hues amidst the screams as it happened. A bloody swirl, jagged rays of slate gray fear, the distinctive pattern of a word she had heard often in past days: "Bane."

She may only have imagined seeing the night-black figure vanish above the wall, but she had no doubt that the incident was ended. The crowd had not even had time to panic.

She pushed forward, peripherally aware that Zembermari and Dismal were at her back. She managed to catch a glimpse before the Sultan’s guards forced the onlookers away. The blood pouring from Zzabul’s torn shoulder; the gaping wound where the Danuvian’s throat had once been. She would remember that sight.

Miri was wrapped around the Grinner’s leg; Dismal and Zember knelt beside her, holding her gently. Dore needed someone to hold her. She caught sound of Shalisa, called to her in Bodorian, gratefully fell into her arms, and began to cry silently.

It was perhaps four sevenths later, Laelolis just beginning to rise, when the Sultan emerged onto the balcony overlooking the palace grounds. The atmosphere was already subdued, and the heralds obtained a proper silence without real effort.

He spoke for less than a minute. He said nothing of sorrow, nothing of anger, nothing of justice. He spoke only of the Clash. One of the contestants was dead. He would have the bane to take her place.

She turned to Shalisa, caught on her first words, started again in Bodorian: "And what will Archimage Aamada think of this?"

The last few bits of this chapter should, hopefully, inspire some of you all. Things are beginning to move along and come together...

Characters?

Dore, Shalisa, Zember are my PCs

Miri, Grinner, Dismal are Dennis' PCs

The bane is Matthew Webber's PC

Archimage Aamada is Monk's PC (from a while back)

Zzabul -- I'm not sure of his status; hell, I'm not even sure how bad he was injured by the Bane.

the Sultan, of course, is a protected NPC

the new characters I mention (the Ispasian, the Zandir dignitaries, the deceased Danuvian, Ostabalon) are all NPCs.

Chapter One: Street Show
Chapter Two: Shalisa's Tale
Chapter Three: Introductions
Chapter Four: Such a Friendly Host
Chapter Five: Gala Finale

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