Two days passed in a strange, tense truce within Aelrindel's lavish manor. Michael and Gaya, despite being the perpetrators of a rather bloody massacre of elven guards, found themselves treated as reluctant, if not respected, guests. Aelrindel, still nursing his bruised ribs and even more bruised ego, kept a wary distance, avoiding any direct interaction with the two gods. Archon's explicit orders to avoid any further conflict, coupled with the very real fear of godly retribution, kept the proud elf in check. Alyndra, on the other hand, underwent a noticeable transformation.
Initially, after the horrifying realization that her casual lovers were, in fact, powerful gods, she was understandably terrified and withdrawn. The mory of them effortlessly slaughtering the guards, of Michael kicking her father across the room like a discarded toy, was seared into her mind. However, a strange sense of gratitude also blood within her. Their violent intervention, however chaotic, had effectively derailed Aelrindel's plans for the arranged marriage.
At first, she was hesitant to even make eye contact, flinching whenever Michael or Gaya moved too quickly. But Michael, recognizing Alyndra's potential as a valuable pawn in the unfolding ga against Andohr, made a conscious effort to put her at ease. He and Gaya spent hours in the manor's sprawling gardens, engaging Alyndra in casual conversation, deliberately steering clear of any ntion of the recent violence. Gaya, surprisingly, took on the role of a sowhat unconventional ntor. She imparted so hard-won wisdom to the forrly haughty elf, teaching her how to command respect without resorting to arrogance and cruelty. In other words, Gaya gave a crash course on how not to be bitch to Alyndra.
Alyndra, for her part, found herself increasingly drawn to their unconventional wisdom and their surprisingly approachable deanor. She still could not quite wrap her head around the fact that she had, in her fabricated mories, slept with two gods, a thought that both thrilled and terrified her. The intensity of the pleasure she rembered, the sheer power she had felt, now made a disturbing kind of sense. Of course, the poor girl remained blissfully unaware that her passionate night was nothing more than a ticulously crafted illusion by the system.
Finally, the day of Death's scheduled arrival at the Richn Club arrived. Initially, Aelrindel refused to allow Alyndra to leave the manor, citing safety concerns and the potential for further "incidents." However, Michael and Gaya, knowing they needed Alyndra's familiarity with Luxor and the club, calmly assured him that they would keep her out of harm's way. They promised that they were simply going for a drink, and that no fucking heads will roll, nothing more. Though Aelrindel bristled with barely concealed resentnt and distrust, he was ultimately powerless to refuse. Arguing with gods, especially after witnessing their capacity for swift and brutal violence, was a fool's errand. He reluctantly agreed, his gut churning with a potent mixture of fear and foreboding, completely unaware that Michael and Gaya were, in fact, planning to cause a great deal of trouble, the kind of trouble that would make Andohr's carefully constructed plans unravel like a cheap tapestry.
Now, Michael, Gaya, and a surprisingly subdued Alyndra were making their way to the Richn Club, ready to throw a huge wrench into Andohr's plan to capture Death for the three horsen.
As they approached their destination, the Richn Club ca into view, its opulent façade still gleaming under the artificial sunlight of Luxor, seemingly untouched by the recent chaos. However, a closer inspection revealed a noticeable increase in security. More golden-armored guards patrolled the streets surrounding the establishnt, their movents precise and their gazes sharp, scanning the crowds with a newfound vigilance - a direct consequence of the bombing at the Silver Citadel.
Ignoring the heightened security presence, Alyndra's personal guards, ever-present and stoic, moved ahead, pushing open the heavy, ornate doors of the club. Michael, Gaya, and Alyndra stepped inside, the familiar sounds of music and muted conversation washing over them.
The interior of the Richn Club, despite the increased security outside, appeared largely unchanged from their last visit. The sa plush carpets, the sa glittering chandeliers, the sa air of opulent exclusivity hung in the air. However, one notable difference was the reduced number of patrons. The recent bombing, it seed, had spooked so of the usual clientele, leaving the usually bustling tavern feeling sowhat subdued. Elven waitresses and waiters, their movents graceful and practiced, navigated through the remaining tables, carrying trays laden with drinks and delicacies.
The orc bartender, recognizing Michael and Gaya, gave them a small, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgnt as they passed. He, wisely, showed no intention of engaging them in conversation, or of drawing any unnecessary attention to their presence. It was a silent understanding, a mutual recognition of the potential for trouble.
Alyndra, without wasting a second, made her way towards her usual table, a large, circular one strategically positioned at the far end of the hall, offering a commanding view of the entire room. It was a power position, a place where she could observe and be observed. Reaching the table, she gestured for Michael and Gaya to sit. Michael and Gaya exchanged a knowing glance before taking their seats.
"Leave us and wait outside,"
Once they were settled, Alyndra dismissed her personal guards, ordering them to wait outside. The guards, under strict orders from Aelrindel to avoid any further conflict with the two gods, simply nodded and retreated, leaving the trio alone at the table.
As they sat down, a young elven waitress, her movents hesitant and cautious, approached the table. She clearly rembered Alyndra's infamous temper, her tendency to lash out at the slightest perceived slight. However, Alyndra, acutely aware of the godly company she was keeping, surprised the waitress, and likely everyone within earshot.
"Bring us three glasses of your best wine, please," Alyndra ordered, her tone surprisingly even, bordering on polite. The waitress, montarily stunned by this unexpected display of civility, stared at the trio for a beat, her eyes wide with disbelief, before quickly nodding and hurrying to get the orders.
The change in Alyndra's deanor did not go unnoticed. Nearby patrons, accustod to her usual haughty arrogance, exchanged shocked glances, their whispers spreading through the room like wildfire.
"Did you hear that?" one elf muttered to his companion. "She actually said 'please'."
"By the Light," another elf responded, shaking his head in disbelief. "I never thought I would live to see the day."
"Sothing is definitely off," a third elf observed, his gaze narrowed in suspicion. "She must be up to sothing. Probably looking for so rich man slut again,"
"Or maybe," a fourth elf chid in, a sly grin spreading across his face, "she's finally learned so manners. It's about fucking ti if you ask ."
While they waited for their drinks, Michael subtly scanned the room, his gaze sweeping over the remaining patrons, the attentive staff, the ornate décor. He knew Death would be here, in this very tavern, and soon. But he did not know under what guise the ancient deity would appear. He had to be observant, to deduce, to identify Death before Andohr's trap could be sprung. Fortunately, he had a few key pieces of information to guide his search. He had overheard from Archon, during their brief but tense encounter, that Death was expected at eleven in the morning. It was now ten forty-five, giving him a narrow window of opportunity.
Michael also had Alyndra. He reasoned that Death, being new to Luxor, would likely be unknown to the city's long-standing residents. So, anyone Alyndra, a prominent mber of Luxor society, did not recognize was a potential candidate. That was his first filter, a way to narrow down the pool of possibilities.
The second filter was behavioral. Death, whoever he was disguised as, would likely try to blend in, to avoid drawing unnecessary attention. Ironically, though, this very attempt at blending in could be a giveaway. Soone too cautious, too observant, too deliberately inconspicuous, might betray their true nature through their very efforts at concealnt.
The final, and perhaps most crucial clue, ca from Pink's ticulous research and the information gleaned from Seraphene's data crystal. Death was left-handed and taciturn, a being of few words. While one could alter their appearance, even their gender, with magic and makeup, changing one's dominant hand was a far more difficult, almost impossible, feat. That left-handedness, coupled with a quiet deanor, was his most reliable indicator.
All Michael needed to do was find soone who fit all three criteria, most importantly the last one, and subtly warn them with a single, well-placed note. Boom. Death leaves, alerted to the danger, and Andohr's ticulously crafted plan would crumble into dust like a fucking sandcastle in a hurricane.
Just as Michael was ntally reviewing his checklist, the heavy doors of the Richn Club swung open, admitting a young male elf. He was dressed in lavish, almost ostentatious, robes of erald green, embroidered with intricate gold thread. He was clearly trying to project an image of wealth and importance. However, his movents were clumsy, almost agitated. He strode purposefully towards an empty table, his gaze darting around the room, not in a calculating, observant way, but in a distracted, almost frantic manner. He nearly collided with a passing waitress, sending a tray of drinks precariously close to disaster.
"Watch where you're going, you clumsy bitch!" he snarled, his voice surprisingly loud and grating, drawing the attention of several nearby patrons.
The waitress, a young elf with wide, startled eyes, stamred an apology, her hands trembling slightly as she steadied the tray. "I-I am so sorry, my lord," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "It won't happen again."
Michael, observing the scene, imdiately dismissed this elf as a potential candidate. He was too loud, too clumsy, too lacking in the subtle control he expected from Death.
Gaya, who was also aware of Michael's plan and the criteria, subtly leaned towards Alyndra. "Who is that?" she asked, her voice a low murmur, barely audible above the tavern's ambient noise.
Alyndra, without taking her eyes off the young elf, responded in a similar low tone. "That's Aerion, the young master of the Sunshadow Clan. A spoiled brat, if you ask ."
Gaya nodded, filing the information away. Another point against the young elf's candidacy.
Five more minutes ticked by, the tension in the room, at least for Michael, steadily increasing. Then, the doors opened again. This ti, an older elf entered. He was a stark contrast to the previous arrival. His silver hair was neatly combed, a neatly trimd beard frad his strong jawline, and his robes were simple but elegant, a deep blue that complented his piercing grey eyes. He moved with a quiet grace, his gaze sweeping over the room, not frantic like Aerion's, but with a calm, asured observation.
Gaya, her interest piqued, leaned towards Alyndra again. "Who is that?" she asked.
Alyndra frowned, her brow furrowing in thought. "I... I do not know," she admitted, her voice tinged with surprise. "I have not seen him around Luxor before."
Michael made a ntal note. This older elf passed two of his checks: Alyndra did not recognize him, and he was undeniably observant, his gaze taking in the room with a quiet intensity. He remained silent, blending into the background, the second check, all he needed was to see his dominant hand. Michael watched him, waiting for him to order a drink, to reach for sothing, anything that would reveal his dominant hand.
anwhile, the waitress finally returned with their order, carefully placing three glasses of sparkling wine on the table before them. Michael thanked her, offering a small, polite smile, his attention still primarily focused on the older elf, waiting for him to make a move.
But before the older elf could order or reveal anything further, the doors to the tavern swung open again. This ti, a woman entered. She was mature, her golden hair styled in an elegant braid, and her eyes, a striking shade of erald green, scanned the room with the sa calm, deliberate observation as the older elf. She was dressed in a flowing gown of deep sapphire blue, its fabric shimring subtly as she moved with a quiet, almost regal grace. She selected a table near the older elf, choosing to sit with her back to the wall, giving her a clear view of the entire room, and settled in with a quiet sigh.
Gaya, ever curious, nudged Alyndra again. "Have you seen her before?"
Alyndra frowned again, shaking her head slightly.
"No," she admitted, a hint of curiosity in her voice. "I have not. Seems like Luxor is attracting so interesting visitors these days."
And with that, the woman also passed two of Michael's checks. Alyndra did not recognize her, and she was undeniably observant and silent. Now, all he needed to determine was their handedness. He did not, however, believe the woman to be Death. Pink had specifically ntioned Death as a 'him.' While disguises were certainly possible, he trusted Pink's intel. Still, she was worth observing, if only to rule her out completely. He just needed one of them to give a tell.
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