Who would guess at a partnership between an international, anarchist rogue and a frivolous, fabulously wealthy young nobleman?

A Month Ago, farther suburbs of Augusta, the Sudland

Theodore Turston had only just gotten down to the day's business of administrating. In a small corner office with bay windows showing a panoramic view of the Shii-tended cotton fields, his massive mahogany desk was already strewn with expense accounts, profit records, stock margins, and so on. Not that Theodore cared anything for the view, except as a reminder of House Atreid's growing prosperity under his near-century of guidance.

Theodore had just welcomed the Chief Overseer to his office for a discussion of the indigo crop when the light tinkle of a bell wafted up from the porch below his window. With an inward sigh (it would never do to show the hired help any friction between House Atreid and himself, its most trusted employee), he excused himself politely and made his way down the grand staircase to the bottom floor.

Solvereign von Atreid lounged complacently in a cushioned wicker chair on the shady front porch of the villa. He was admiring the fine screens put in recently on the porch's edge, keeping the buzzing flies of summer away from his illustrious personage. He then proceeded to sip a fine morning wine from the coast of Eden. This required a delicate balance: the wine was iced to keep it cool from the summer heat, but with too much ice, the wine would become diluted in a fashion distasteful for Solvereign. Luckily, two Shii slaves kept him cool by fanning him with elaborate peacock-feather fans as well.

Of course, Sol was so used to this treatment that it did not surprise him in the least. Neither did it surprise him when Theodore appeared on the porch, noticeably short of breath from the jog down the household. "You sent for me, sir?" he gasped- Theodore was cut out for multiplying together seven columns of produce, not rushing around the house at breakneck speed.

Sol nodded slightly, careful not to upset his wine glass. "Yes, T.T." he said innocently.

Theodore inwardly grimaced at the pet nickname. I'd be treated differently by your father... he thought, for the umpteenth time this week. "Well then, what is it you desire? I am glad to report that indigo and cotton proceeds appear to be well up for the coming quarter, due to increased stability within Sade, as well as the increased productivity measures I have pioneered..."

It was a wonder Sol didn't cut him off sooner. "T.T! I've told you time and time again, don't bother me with troublesome details!" Sol said with as much force as he could muster, which wasn't much, considering he was lounging half-prone, being fanned, and drinking cooled wine.

"ANYWAYS," he continued, in a manner that brooked no argument, "I'm tired of being away from the Serdian court, and away from my... admirers..." Sol failed to catch a slight eye-rolling on the part of Theodore.

"I wish to go out into the city," he finished.

"Very well, sir, but I must insist you bring along a proper guard," Theodore responded.

"A guard? Well, I suppose so..." Sol returned, a bit of a crafty gleam in his eye. For the places he wished to go in the city, he would have to lose his guard... but that wouldn't be too difficult.

Had Theodore been less preoccupied with the affairs of the estate, he might have noticed the disingenuous response of his master- he had known him his entire life, after all. But it was not to be, and after a perfunctory bow, Theodore returned to his office.

Sol proves he's good (or perhaps bad) for something more than just relaxation...

A Month Ago, central Augusta, the Sudland

Sol payed barely a moment's notice to the elegant brick Victorians and palatial Italianate townhouses of downtown Augusta. He was a man on a mission- even if it was a sordid mission. "We turn west," he said perfunctorily to his five guards, in a tone that brooked no argument.

After leading them further into the maze of ever-narrower streets leading to the slum section of Augusta, his lead guard finally spoke up. "Your grace, I have a bad feeling about this..." he said hesitantly, not wanting to provoke his fickle master's wrath.

Solvereign pretended to seriously consider his subordinate's plea, then announced, "Very well, we'll step into this bar down here." He gestured to a decidedly shady establishment, with a peeling-paint sign above proclaiming "The Goblin's Mug," and greasy windows giving very little indication of the inside.

The guards hesitated for a moment, but ultimately their greed for free drink overcame their desire to protect their master. After all, it was his wishes, right?

Poor guards...

A Month Ago, "The Goblin's Mug" Taven, Augustan Slums, the Sudland

The benighted building had clearly seen far better times- or maybe it was just built to look incredibly dilapidated. It was a wonder that the mugs didn't literally have goblin trash in them, as far as the guards were concerned.

Still, free beer was free beer, and when was the last time anything of that nature was turned down by someone in the military profession?

"A round of drinks for my good men," Sol said magnanimously, smiling around at the bar's company, which included a few barely-recognizable heaps of dirty clothing and hair drinking their swill, but little else besides the obligatory rodents and arachnids producing various scuttling noises to add to the general aura of despair.

Sol, completely oblivious to the atmosphere, proceeded to drink his men into the ground. In a more fastidious man of his stature, the establishment would have caused serious wretching and disgust- but Sol was intent on his goal, a little
'excitement' in the slums of Augusta.

Sol prided himself on his 'great' manipulative skills, and gave himself a mental pat on the back when his guards were all snoring on the countertop. The sleazy bartender watched in wonder as the elaborately dressed young lord jumped up, and pranced out of the dark room into the worst part of Augusta.

Sol doesn't get very far...

A Month Ago, outside "The Goblin's Mug" Tavern, Augustan Slums, the Sudland

Solvereign skipped eagerly out of the dingy establishment into the equally dingy street. Here was squalor at its finest- narrow, winding streets, with patched-up wooden sides and rusty iron bars on the windows. The sky was almost entirely blotted out by a combination of overhanging second floors and obligatory clothes lines, giving the street a rain forest-like gloom.

Of course, Sol had already made up his mind to ignore the indignities (which was quite a feat for such a pompous noble, if you think about it). Of course, his motives were less than angelic- very decidedly less than angelic.

Still, lurking close by was one whose motives were less angelic even than Solvereign's.

A logical extension of a Noble traveling alone in the slums...

A Month Ago, behind "The Goblin's Mug" Tavern, Augustan Slums, the Sudland

A dank and noisome alley ran between "The Goblin's Mug" and the crowded tenement next door, filled with the refuse of the urban poor too busy scratching out a living to dispose of trash properly, and not aided by a government who cared more for its noble squares and fields of Shii-tended cotton than such undesirable places.

At the end of the alley, a black shape moved among the stink. Could it be a rat? Oh, yeah, it was. But further back, something larger and (if possible) blacker crouched behind a pile of refuse.

Jorr Nathansen was decidedly angry. Of course, he had grown up in the slums of Augusta, and going back wasn't such a new experience. But after years in the elite levels of the undercover royalist Serdian intelligence organizations, returning was rather galling.

Of course, he had an important mission- to locate a high-ranking member of the Revolution, now in hiding, known as Janus Pitt. The Cabinet Noir du Roi, Serdio's royal intelligence service, had had a field day when the union of Serdio and Meria became official, because it was now far easier to begin hunting traitors to the Crown in earnest- many of them had gone into hiding in the nooks and crannies of the Serdian Empire.

So now Jorr was crouching behind a pile of god-knows-what, reconnecting with his "roots," well aware that he'd been chosen because of his connection to the area and hating it. But he was disciplined, of course, and had a job to do.

He was also shrewdly ingenious (it was necessary to get high in his profession without noble backing), and as he saw the ridiculously out-of-context nobleman emerging from the bar, thought of an opportunity.

It was only a few seconds later that he emerged from the alley, shedding sludge, the sharp click of a pistol cocking resonating in Sol's ears.

A stranger extension of the logical extension

A Month Ago, outside "The Goblin's Mug" Tavern, Augustan Slums, the Sudland

Sol didn't even freeze when he heard the gun click, he was too wrapped up in his own little world. But then he felt the icy chill of metal on the nape of his neck, and even one of his dubious alertness couldn't help but stand still.

Part one complete, thought Jorr, and growled harshly, "You! Did you see anyone in that bar? Keep it down, or you're a dead man."

For a moment it looked as if Sol might be able to master his terror enough to speak, but then he broke down, blubbering and shaking. An iron hand gripped his shoulder from behind as a roughshod boot delivered a vicious kick to his leg, eliciting a low moan.

"P-p-p-please don't hurt me!" Sol quavered, and would have fallen if not for the agent's heavy grip.

"Stop blathering, fool, and answer the question," snarled Jorr, getting concerned about his open position (despite the overhanging rooves). A simple reconnaissance and coercion had turned into a dangerous situation because of the terror of one suffering elitist who'd probably never left his manicured estates before.

Of course for Sol that wasn't entirely true (his base appetites, and the fact that he only spent half of the year at Court, meant that he had ventured around in some illicit circumstances before, with only luck keeping a situation like this from arising). And perhaps it was that slight bit of experience, or maybe some primitive urge for survival buried under the court foppishness, that made Sol finally pull himself together enough to answer the question.

"Only the bartender and a few commoners in dirty clothes..."

Jorr wanted to get out of there, fast. He thrust a grubby parchment in Sol's face, a wanted poster with the name JANUS PITT printed in large letters below a picture of a man in Revolutionary uniform. "Did you see this man?"

"Errr..." Sol responded, despairing of survival and desperately flogging his fear-addled brain...

An even more strange extension of the stranger extension

A Month Ago, 2nd floor of "The Goblin's Mug" Inn, Augustan Slums, the Sudland

In the Augustan slums, thievery was rife and poverty was everywhere... but space was still scarce. Thus, many bartenders made money on the side by renting out the creaky second floors of their establishments as inns for those poor enough and hardened enough to put up with barbaric conditions.

Janus Pitt was one such person, although he had a third, and more pressing reason- namely, the wanted poster just shown by Serdian agent Jorr Nathansen. Pitt had the misfortune to be born at the exact time where the damn-the-consequences idealism of his youth corresponded exactly with the heyday of the Serdian revolution. Naturally, he was wound up in it, and emerged rather the worse for wear after Terence Valonia's exile and the return of Serdio to House Rlugia.

Since then, Pitt had been hiding out in the Sudland, relying on his handiness with sword and pistol to keep him on his feet. Truly, it was a great fall for firstly a distinguished Revolutionary officer, and secondly and more importantly, an internationally-renowned explorer. He had lived in Eden's sweltering jungles, endured the deserts of Vulcan and the tundra of the northern Holy Lands, fought his way through the tribal wars of the Highlands, battled with Mecha in Z.E.A.L., and even plumbed the depths of Mistia's caves, the source of Zelpha's evil.

But now he was on the run, and reduced to staying in fifth-rate hotels and fighting slum lords for a bit of cash. And there was always the long arm of the Serdian royalists behind him, drawing ever-closer now that the union of Sade made him wanted everywhere.

Janus surveyed his tiny, dank room, with its mouldering bed and the faint skitterings of creatures in the walls. He was constantly afraid that the tiny annexe would break through its rotting supports and onto the street below- his 'lodging' (if it could be called that) had been tacked onto the inn/tavern over the street by a bartender desperate to squeeze the slums for more money.

Janus called himself back to reality and reached into his trunk, pulling out one of his few remaining treasured possessions- a large map of Zelpha, measuring fully a yard square, detailing the minutiae of his exploits.

He had been everywhere, done quite a bit- but he was more vulnerable now than ever before. Yet suddenly his eye strayed to the far right lower corner of the map- where a small blank spot existed on the otherwise colorful parchment, where the cartographer had simply penned "unexplored continent" and left it at that- the hubris of armchair geographers made evident when contrasted with their more active explorer brethren.

Janus's eyes had strayed there many times before, but each time his thoughts- of a new start, free from his past and enhancing his reputation- were ground down by the dim reality of being stuck halfway across the world from his dream, living hand-to-mouth in a place where he could feel the boards rotting under him.

But suddenly he was snapped out of his reverie a second time by the sound of a hostile voice on the road below- "Have you seen this man?"

Instincts aroused and fully alert, Janus went to the small, grimy window, and rubbed a clear spot with his cloak, to see a ludicrously-attired nobleman being accosted by a dark, hooded man. And in that man's hand was...

Pitt's heart skipped a beat. After all this waiting, they had found him. Staring back at him from the hooded figure's parchment was his own face- more than a decade younger, but still entirely recognizable.

The Strangeness continues

A Month Ago, 2nd floor of "The Goblin's Mug" Inn, Augustan Slums, the Sudland

Even more an experienced campaigner like Janus Pitt, a few moments were needed to decide on a course of action. The shock of all his waiting coming to an end, and his worst fears being confirmed, certainly influenced him- but no one could live, not knowing what was around the next corner, for years, without gaining a certain pragmatism in times when it was needed most.

Pitt glanced down- the weight of his rapier rested comfortably on his hip (in truth, the narrow sword had a heavy and abrasive scabbard, which Pitt valued for its durability in preventing his most prized possession from succumbing in the most hostile environments. This meant that the comfortability of the rapier was purely mental).

Grun? was Pitt's first thought. He glanced at his shoddy nightstand, on which a well-oiled rifled pistol sat, stolen in Galengreg from a N.E.O. Z.E.A.L. arms merchant. Too loud, he decided, and his gaze fell again to the rapier, which he drew in a quick and practiced motion.

His eyes moved to the doorway, but then swiveled to the window instead. The one clean spot he had rubbed in the otherwise-filthy windowpane revealed several clotheslines hanging between the houses.

Pitt reached out and grasped the window latch, forcing it upwards without a sound, uttering a silent thanks to the oil he had spread on it several days before, when he acquired lodging here. It would be nice at this point to reflect that Pitt's forethought was the result of extraordinary intelligence or crystal-ball-gazing shenanigans, but the reality rested on the more bleak reality of "always prepared" being more than a motto to Pitt- it was the quintessential survival technique.

The window was now open, giving Pitt a better view of the sorry scene unfolding below. The menacing government agent continued to growl at the hapless nobleman, whose blubbering and vacillations had reached a cacophonous crescendo. It was a reflection of the general despair of the Augustan slums that no one in the neighborhood had bothered to notice.

Pitt put his head through the window, and grasped the strongest clothesline nearby. Testing its strength, he judged it just strong enough to carry him to the center of the street. Planting his feet firmly on the edge of the cot inside, he kicked upwards, launching himself out of the window and grasping a stout woolen shirt with his left hand. The gleaming rapier, still high enough above the gloom of the streets to catch the light, extended from his right hand in a line towards the Serdian agent.

Utter a yell, to inspire confusion and for maximum frontal damage, he thought, and acted accordingly. He allowed himself a moment to observe the interestingly combined expression of shock and fear on the nobleman's upturned face, which was cut short when the clothesline began to bend dangerously downward. Adjusting his sword point towards the side of his opponent's neck (Pitt disliked those showy swordsmen who went for the jugular or the aorta for dramatic effect- a precision cut, inflicting little outward damage but severing nerve endings necessary for life, was far less messy), Pitt's rapier skewered the agent's neck, spraying a small amount of blood onto the dirty street below and causing the victim's eyes to glaze over immediately.