Title: The Machiavellian Mind
Date: February 5, 2000

The sun has just gone down, and the Rialto is clearing of all but a few stragglers and last minute shoppers. Fighting against the tide of people, Jehan strides into the Rialto. A following of about fifteen Varati men is in his wake.

Geridan's quick pace marrs the usual grace that carries his step. His pace is quick, driven by the desire to escape this dreadful weather. He pulls the cloak higher up on his shoulders with his right hand, keeping the gloves left securely on the hilt of his blade. Can never be too carefull this time of night. His pale blue-grey eyes mark a contrast to the ever darkening night, but errily match the cold enveloping the land.

Jehan sneers as one of his cronies shares one of his more flagrant jokes. A snicker rides through the rest of the crowd. They continue in this manner, Varati men sharing their 'good' jokes, Jehan feigning interest, until well into the Rialto. On a night like this, half of the men are drunk, and don't even bother trying not to attract attention.

Lailah is lured in from the north by the aroma of baked goods.

Geridan arches an eyebrow over at the ariving parade. A parade it defiantly is... drunken fools. Perhaps more like a traveling circus. He chuckles to himself as a whisp of blue overtakes the grey in his eyes and quickly fades. Tightening the gloved hand on his hilt and still keeping it well hidden.

Jehan sighs audibly. Nothing to top a bad night like a brisk jaunt with a score of drunken idiots. Regardless, nothing can be done. With the recent publicity, if he walked alone... Well, he doesn't. And that's that. He takes his mind to a distant place, grinning and nodding in the appropriate slots in the drunks' stories. He leads them towards the center of the Rialto - maybe some of them will get arrest, and make his baby-sitting job all the more easy.

A slight shadow can be seen slinking along one row of stalls in the descending darkness; the soft swish of cloth and the faint patter of bare feet to the cold ground signals Lailah's entrance to those closeby. From the south the girl comes, heading at a rather leisureful pace northwards. A scarf in Khalida colours has been wrapped about her head, leaving stray locks of frizzy hair to peek out here and there, but the veil has been pulled down to drape casually around thin shoulders, revealing the whole oval of that chocolatey face. A basket is held in one hand, swinging back and forth with almost menacing manner; good job there aren't too many people about, or the slave might accidentally fling the thing straight for some poor bystander's head... or stomach, or other part where it would hurt.

Geridan tilts his head a little more questioningly at the group, his pale eyes sharpening, focusing on the... circus parading through the center. Not many dare venture straight through the Rialto this late. No matter how many people are with them... and especially if they're drunk. Clouds of grey roll in over his eyes, hardening them... something is not right here. He stops in his tracks, the cold no longer an issue to him; a distant memory long forgotten. His cloak hangs losely, flapping open behind him in the cool winters breeze.

Jehan continues on, fervently wishing he were somewhere else. Anywhere else. Gazing around the Rialto, he freezes as he catches a man staring at him. Rather rude, that. Jehan promptly returns the stare, and one could swear the air heated up between the two. Not a warm reception either way. The moment is broken, however, as one of Jehan's drunken groupees stumbles into him, nearly knocking Jehan to the ground. As it is, the drunk made Jehan scuff his boots. Quickly now, Jehan twirls around, grabbing the man's arm to twist it behind his back with one hand. The other shoots to his dagger, and in one swift motion he brings the hilt hard down onto the man's head, dropping him to the ground. And there he will lay for a bit. Shrugging it off, Jehan glances back towards the staring stranger, sheathing his dagger.

A gust of wind pulls at Geridan's cloak, a glimmer, a speck, light reflecting off metal. If but for an instant his gloved hand on the hilt of his blade is revealed. You could swear that was almost planed. He makes no move, but returns teh stare through cold slitted eyes, studying, assessing; his head tilted slightly to the side.

Brilliant cat's eyes flit over the square, constantly moving, taking in the sights and sounds around the slight creature which continues for the north; catching the faint light of the evening, those pale orbs seem to glow almost as if with a light of their own, creating quite the contrast to the rest of Lailah's near-black visage. Her gait is fluid, liquid, reminding much of a feline stalking some prey, ready to leap in any direction at any moment. As that parade ahead is noted, she slows her steps, however, tilting her head to one side; the cat's eyes lock on to the group - going from Jehan to the man on the ground, then back again. How interesting. The mongrel's stare matches the one of Geridan quite well, unblinking and curious. Geridan is noted as well, and the naraki stops altogether a bit away, hunching her basket in both hands. Ooh, are they going to fight? You can practically taste the testosterone in the air.

Jehan, of course, returns Geridan's stare. There will be a time for action, but this, assuredly, is not it. However, one of the drunks, looking between Jehan and Geridan, thinks it is. And so he takes about four other Varati from the group, and begins approaching Geridan. That's about five big, drunken Varati men, all advancing on Geridan. Uh oh.

Frigid granite eyes take in the man standing in the middle of the Rialto, appearing to hold no regard for the five circus creatures approaching him. His eyes hold steady, speaking volumes through the silence of the night. A quick whisp of blue, gone as quickly as it appeared wash over them, and the hand, once again hidden behind the cloak, tenses, tightening it's grip.

A considering glance is cast northwards; should she return for Atesh-Gah or stay to watch the entertainment? Full lips purse slightly; after a moment's thought, Lailah - who never was known to be the most eager servant anyway - decides that she can well spare a few minutes. A stall, now empty for the night, is picked out, and with one quick leap, the mongrel finds herself a comfortable seat at the counter, placing the basket beside her with a soft thud.

Jehan sighs, shaking his head wistfully after the drunken procession. No use even trying to stop them now. But if his judgement's correct, that man's a warrior. And chances are, no number of drunken Varati are going to bother him much. So he tips the odds... He glances at the group of drunks. By now, they have drawn their weapons. He picks out the one who appears to be the least drunk, and the best with his weapon, and concentrates a moment. The blade bursts into flame. Now, let's see how the staring man handles this.

Initially, the drunks stare in wonder and not a little fear at the flaming weapon. Then, sneers of confidence plastered to their drunken features, the charge Geridan.

Geridan's blade is drawn in an isntant, a quick flash of light, and the sound of steel on steel, and shuffling feet. He takes a moment to regard the drunken man's supprise through slitted, unforgiving eyes. To the mans left now, he pivots quickly bringing the hilt of his blade down on the ack of the drunk's head. They're leader should enjoy that one. Already set to face the next one, his blade arcs of to the side, his body barely in motion, striking his attackers wrist with the flat of his blade and causing him to drop his weapon. Another moments pause, another regard of surprise and he lays the man flat on his back with a heel-palm to the nose. He lets his cloak open, waving behind him as he falls in to stance, the remaining three surounding him. One lunges, he sidesteps taking his arm in a hold and breaking the bone in one motion. Quickly he shifts his weight throwing him in to the other two. One exhaled breath and his cloak again closes around him as he awaits the flameblades. Eyes cold and patient.

Geridan isn't the only one staring here. Of course, Lailah is not a man, so she probably isn't as interesting. Burning swords in the middle of the Rialto?! And right outside the Delphic Citadel, to that? Black brows shoot for the heavens above the glimmering eyes, the slave's stance tenses perhaps a tad, before the brows dip instead, resulting in a remarkable frown. That's not exactly fair to the lone Geridan, now is it? ...Oh well, he seems to be doing rather fine. Maybe it's the drunks that she should really feel sorry for, on second thought.

The one with the flaming weapon hesitates. Damn, this man is -good-, he thinks. But caution surrenders to a drunk's trend towards violence and, with a shout, he and his final standing companion charge at Geridan. The flaming weapon flashes back and forth, with a certain amount of skill behind it. The man's drunkenness had begun to fade, and now he is almost entirely sober, geared into by the prospect of a good fight. He maneuvers with no small amound of skill. His companion, however, exhibits no such qualifications.

Geridan makes no move what so ever until his attackers come within ten feet of him. Verry slowly his slides his legs apart just outside of shoulder length. His gloved left hand run the course of the blade as he raises it, pulling it horizontally in front of him, the flaming blade glimmering off the well polished sword. His eyes regard them in shifts as thee two pace around him. But this time... he makes the first move. He lunges forward at the flaming blade, slashing down and to the right. At contact he uses the momentom from teh clash of steel to sweep down low, pivoting and coming up behind his attacker. His blade swings back up but meets the firey blade again. Hmmm... not all incompitants wielding toys... The drunk approaches behind him. Jumping backwards to avoid a swinging blade of flame he turns to the other attacker parrying his attack. Quickly he extends his left foot behind him, catching the flaming attacker off guard and knocking him back... giving him just enough time....

Geridan tightens his wrist and grip on his blade, pushing his opponents in to a wide circle, faster and faster around they go until... Geridan lugnes straight forward, piercing flesh... not deep enough to kill though. Falling back in to a lose stance he turns to regard the man with the flame blade once more. He lunges forward in to the fray, steel clashing on firey steel, parry, parry, thrust. Finally Geridan catches his opponent offguard, forcing his blade out too far to the right. Throwing his whole body in the man he knocks him backward, hearing a satisfyign clang as the flameblade falls to the ground. Pivoting he turns his back to the man and clenches his gloved left hand. I one swift motion he brings it up connecting it with his attackers face and letting him slowly... collapse to the earth.

Geridan takes a moment to look over the fallen opponents around him. He shakes his head slightly, so much for his rather improved mood. Exercise was good though. He tests his blade, rotating his wrist loosely once, before letting his cloak wrap back around him.

The flames disappear from the blade just as quickly as they appeared. The clapping of a single man shatters the sudden silence of the Rialto. Jehan, clapping, seperates from his crowd, slowly walking towards the staring one. Geridan. A smile is upon his lips. "Very well done, Imphadi, very well done," he says, respect full in his voice. "Such a man, why... The possibilities are endless," he says, his whole face, including his eyes, are now involved in the smile. "Perhaps, you and I could have A Word with each other at a later date," he says. "My name is Jehan. And yours?"

Geridan tilts his head, cold eyes fixing wearily on the approaching man. A slight grin tugs at the right corner of his lips though. He inclines his head slightly, "Hmmmm, your clowns are they?" He permits himself a small chuckle. "I am Geridan, Geridan Kentari. And... I may want to take you up on that." A brow arches slightly but a smiles has overtaken his lips and whisps of blue wash over his eyes. He has accepted this man for some odd reason.

Jehan smiles a bit wider, but his eyes have now returned to their usual coldness. "That is good. You can see," and he gestures around him, "That I need desperately for good help. Yes, you and I have much to speak of." With that, he turns and walks silently out of the Rialto, leaving his drunks to fend for themselves. Let them explain what happened to the Hounds, when and if they arrive.

Geridan grins, shaking his head, Maybe his rather improved mood wasn't ruined after all. He notices one of the drunks beginning to rise and motions at him, laughing with satisfaction as the man curls up in to a quivering ball on the ground. Sheathing his blade he pulls his cloak tight around him once more and returns to his origional errand.

FIN

Back to the Light of the Moon Story.