A VIP booth was a slot cut into the upper wall, sheathed in a surrounding of velvet with gold trim. Masks were provided, plain white masks with a sigil across the brow. The table looked slick with its magical glyphs pulsing, nothing more than a touch to allow bids to covertly take place.
Beneath them, they spotted the fasted drama of the auctioneer accentuated in a appearance of a colorful show! An elven man in extravagant purple royal robes with braids of silver hair. "Ladies and gentlemen of value, welcome to the rarest of offerings tonight! Let's get started!"
The floor of the auction was a sea of cloaked figures and riches. Nearly immediately, the bidding war began to slowly unravel.
"Lose #1! Elixer of Flamebreath. A Three Star fire enhancing potion!"
"Three hundred gold!"
"Three hundred and fifty!"
"Five hundred!" shouted a large man, veins throbbing, sweat near his brow.
"Lot #2! Mistveil Draught - Two Star invisibility potion. No scent guaranteed. No sound!"
"Six hundred gold!"
"Seven hundred and fifty!"
Luenor leaned slightly forward, scanning the other VIPs. The Marquis Duskwatch was unmistakable even with his mask on; his cloak of green-stitched silver was just like his noble crest. Next to him was his son Argen and the stoic knight, Ren. The semi-circle booth opposite them had four men clothed in black suits. Luenor lightly tapped Thalanar.
"I don't know who they are," he whispered.
Thalanar responded, "No records. Maybe Mellon's men?"
Hunter quietly whispered, "Their leader's a three star. Aarons and Frill are weaklings. If it comes down to it... we can take them."
Luenor narrowed his eyes under his mask.
The auction continued until the curtains opened for the next item.
"Lot #9! A Skyshard Blade—one of the finest forged swords with a mana core. Extremely light. Extremely efficient. Extremely deadly."
The auctioneer smiled while the crowd murmured.
"Starting bid—four hundred golds!"
"Five," Luenor said without even a twitch.
The other VIPs did not acknowledge him. The auctioneer acknowledged the bid while the lower crowd slowly rose from the bottom of the four hundred gold bids up, and Luenor watched and worried about not keeping his identity and vanity in check.
"Six hundred!"
"Seven fifty!"
"Eight!"
Luenor raised it again, "One thousand."
Silence.
The auctioneer smirked. "Sold to the esteemed guest in Booth Three."
Thalanar turned. "No one fought for it."
Luenor laughed. "Because they have better ones."
Meanwhile in Booth One, Argen frowned. "Father, who are they?"
Duskwatch paused, "Could be Mellon's scouts. Or someone from the Duke. The black markets like these…maintaining order on the surface but there is a war underneath."
Argen's gaze sickened looking at the floor below. "Duskwatch isn't yours anymore, is it?"
The Marquis did not reply.
Back in Luenor's booth a boy appeared once more. "Your product will be delivered at the end, and the master also says...if you pay double, he will arrange all Skyshard Blades in storage for your purchase."
As the boy bowed and ran away, Thalanar asked, "You sure Arwin can handle the storage?"
Luenor smiled behind the mask, "It's Arwin. He'll be fine."
____
And down the hall...
Arwin pressed himself to the wall and proceeded to watch. A knight had gone in the heavy oak door, but hadn't come back out.
A guard spotted him. "Hey, who—"
Arwin's fist was coming down. The guard hit the floor with a dull thud, and Arwin pulled him into a storage closet and quickly put on his armor. With his helmet covering his face, he approached the auction storage chamber, where things came in and out.
Sitting near the entrance, he felt calm and ready.
The knight had not come out yet. Arwin assessed the hallway again— calculating, waiting.
___
Silence blanketed the auction hall, broken only by the operator's brides pulling back the curtains once more to reveal a tall, lean man wearing shiny, silver chains. Although his regal stature was slightly diminished by the filthy, threadbare length of his long white hair - which fell just past his shoulders - he clearly stood apart in the new and unfamiliar surroundings. His pale skin - akin to frost - showed two intricate tattoos deep blue building to smaller designs over his collarbone and outer forearms which spoke true lineage. However, those tattoos could do little to mask the emptiness in his eyes - a pitiful taint of destruction.
"Whew!" the auctioneer declared, the theatrics deepened in pitch as he swept closer to center stage. The only person in the auction that did not seem eager to join in the merriment was the elf, likely locked in a pitiful trance of despair as he bobbed slightly in the grip of his restraints. "And now! A rare marvel indeed! A Snow Tribe elf - having been captured in the southern peaks of the Icelands - an extraordinary sample to witness and spend our hard-earned salt on! It is worth noting that his mana is sealed, and that servitude is guaranteed!"
Thalanar's hands balled into fists and Hunter leaned over to whisper, "Easy there. Hold yourself."
"I recognize that mark," he hissed, his voice charged with contained rage. "That's the Crest of Ael'Naevar - the Snow Tribe. This elf is no Ruthenian! What is the hell he doing here?!"
Luenor didn't answer. He continued to stare at the elf, who cup scratched the wand-like button of the band of rune bidders from their booth.