Chapter 637: Auction/Negotiations

Pastia's Theater, a star-stuttered theater where many renowned figures have performed over many years. The immediate entrance drew attention, and not in a good way. The car, a very dignified and stunning lady, the lavishly dressed children. Remove the rumbunctious attitude and none be the wiser to their identity. When push comes to shove; the energetic Draconis acted humbly and kept a low profile. The listless Vanesa's face glowed, there was energy in her step. Lastly, the very egotistic Saniata, her revenge lost meaning somewhere along the way as shown by the subtle changes. 

Pillars of marble passed them; hurdled guests pressed judgment. 

"Good evening," said an attendant with combed hair and an earring. 

"Good evening," replied Igna, "-I've come here to offer an ancient artifact from my house."

"Do pardon my intrusion," he gave a once over, "-about the relic, we have made a point to only accept items from nobles."

"Yes, yes, I know," he firmed the doubt, "-to stop counterfeits, the history of scams is known to me." The noble crest tied to a golden chain gently laid on the table, "-Viscount of Glenda, and son to the Duchess of Rotherham, Igna Haggard." 

"My," he gasped, "-your reputation precedes you, my lord. The moniker of the devil is one hefty to bear, is it not?"

"Perhaps yes, and perhaps no, who can really tell," without a wasted motion, the ring materialized into the open palm, "-this object has been in my family for decades. A special order I made; I can assure its quality." 

The attendant gestured an appraiser over. The latter arrived with a monocle and rustic cologne. "-Is this the piece?" he inquired with most of the pronunciation at the tip of his mouth. "By the grace of Luna," he coughed, "-tis the biggest stone of Ardanite ever to be seen. The ring's imbued with fortification magic, the metal is a compound of Ikahmite and a few others."

"-H-how much are you willing to accept for the ring?" gulped the attendant. The commotion garnered attention from the supervisor. A lady of slightly old age, she approached glaringly. Light reflected against her frameless glasses, "-what's the commotion about?"

Igna gasped, the fist clenched, "-S-Sophie Mirabelle…"

"Excuse me?" she glanced over her lowered glasses; "-do I perhaps know you?"

"No, no," he smiled, "-I know you from the tales my uncle shared before his death. The SSS-ranked mage, and first ally he made, Sophie Mirabelle."

"Uncle," she took a closer look, "-are you perhaps related to the late Staxius Haggard?"

"Yes. Please, take a better look at what I've brought today. I'd estimate the price in the tens of millions, and tis a conservative number." A badge told of her title, '-organizer.'

Meanwhile, they debated on the ring, an inconspicuous hooded figure handed a lute at the next table. The appraiser glanced and said no, '-this feeling,' he gulped. The figure silently retracted her hand then spun. The crimson pupils shut firmly, '-that mana,' the heart raced, he reopened to the memory of another, the outside world faded, '-I can't…' 

The tales of the lute spoke of a wandering bard. A boy who suffered great ordeal for the sake of sufferance. The malignant regret in the instrument sufficed to have Origin react, the cursed Lute of Goddess Luna's bard.

"Excuse me," called the attendant, "-we've concluded on 20 million as the bidding price, is that acceptable?"

"Sure," he nodded briefly, "-the history and heritage must add to the value." Quick on the step, the watchers wavered at the sudden impertinences. The hooded figure swam through the hurdled entourages, 

"Night, the harbinger of desolation, ire, and cold," the passage caught her ear to a curious stop," -a cold of which men fears to the heart for he has scoured the Earth for food and provisions. He asks for naught but a warm bed, one shared with his loved ones. Sadly, tis not as is meant for he's cursed. One to be abandoned as the night scare all. Fortune shines for he longs to see the night, to see the moonshine amidst the starry-filled sky. Day hides her true splendor. Dusk settles, her hue humbly pierces the darkened land, Goddess Luna arrived after the vibrant colored sunset rests. Our only source of light, the one who loves all – Luna. Oh – I wish I had seen thine majestic self before the many who are to sleep under thy watchful gaze. The one who acts as our bastion, we thank thee for being gracious. At night, where cold and hunger run rampant, we find salvation in thine shadow. She who helps the poor and rich alike, we thank thee for thine light. Under the cold sky, we wish we could see, whatever more thou have to offer," the figure spun and stormed to Igna, "-Alas, us humans are but feeble creatures. Goddess Luna, the ever gracious, how I wish I could reach out and touch thee, for thou art mine own salvation, In a moment of peril," the cloak unraveled to a boy bearing the features of a lady, or rather, the appearance eased to fit the genders. 

"Color me surprised," said she, "-I never expected someone to know the wandering bard's tales," she tiptoed to match his stern expression, "-the story is only known to the resident of a higher plane." 

"And I'd like to know why Goddess Luna has decided to walk the mortal realm," returned a cautious whisper. 

"I wanted to enjoy the casinos," her posture slouched, "-us divine are bored, I need money to gamble…"

"You remind me of a certain someone," he cringed, "-sell me the lute."

"How much?" her eyes glimmered.

"Five thousand, not an exa more."

"Fine," she reached for her pocket, "-transfer the funds and have the instrument." An uncertain turn of events briefly held his attention. 

"I apologize for the delay." 

Concurrently at the restaurant, the discussion went back and forth. Éclair provided crucial information on the drug trade, Esvalo returned the kindness in full. Desserts arrived, the table emptied, the escorts were slumped and heavily drunk. 'He used a drug earlier,' thought Éclair, '-the same one used for Alicia's murder.' 

"Here are the papers," smoke puffed onto the table, "-the price is 10 million."

"Let me take a look," said Éclair. Kul and Asmo held their breaths, the legitimacy would make or break the advancement in the underworld. 

"Looks to be in order," said he, "-nothing's amiss, and the current papers are original. Transferring ownership should be a matter of signing the papers and notifying the bank."

"I told you," smoke puffed with arms around the escorts' shoulders, "-the Vermillion family loves to do deal legally. Our properties are clear of suspicion, none can harm us," he winked, "-Odgawoan officials are in the great families' pockets." 

"Can't you move on the price?" narrowed Éclair, "-the papers are in order, however, the transference is over 500,000. Quite expensive for a piece of land," he judged accusingly, "there's a history there." The table fell silent, a subtle raise of the brow triggered Éclair's investigative side. The refusal led to a deep dive through archives. 'Don't underestimate me.'

"There's no history there, the place's been abandoned because of many claimants. We can't do none about it." 

"Claimants," glared Kul, "-Esvalo, I do hope the code of conduct isn't breached. Breaking vows of solidarity instated by the family is a grave mistake. Tell me now, are you sure?" 

"Hold on a moment," interjected Éclair, "-Esvalo, care to explain the incident which happened five years ago. The owner hung himself. Ever since then, every owner has either been murdered or fell prey to suicide. Is there maybe something we're missing?"

"N-no, it's just coincidence."

"Not at all," he leaned, "-the Vermillion family's very possessive. We give money then it's death. Without evidence, the deal continues. The legitimacy of the papers is the bait. Do you think us fools?"

Asmodeus' aura channeled into a storm of nausea, "-Esvalo, tell me, is this true?" the ground shook, many feared earthquakes. 

"Trickery in the underworld," minuscule orbs summoned above Kul's fingers, "-is expected from the soldiers, not the bosses. Here we thought the families to be respectable."

"I can explain," said he nonchalantly, sweat caught the over-head lamp's light, "-the killings aren't our doing. Tis a gang from Alice's Nightmare. They call themselves the 50 blood brothers. The owner was a member of their group. He killed himself after being betrayed by our family, we sat down and discussed. He did wrong, treating the people of the red-light district poorly. Before our hitmen arrived, he took his life alongside a worker of the district."

"If we claim ownership, will they come after us?" 

"Yes. We can't risk attacking them, might trigger another war."

"50 blood brothers," snickered Kul, "-how childish."

"Here's my offer," affirmed Asmo, "-give us the property for 7 million. In exchange, the 50 blood brothers will become the zero men squad."

"You're going to exterminate them?" 

"No, we'll destroy them." A handshake sealed the deal, the Raven's became the new owner of the abandoned motel. 

Two hours elapsed; time was now for the auctions. The ring brought many nobles and rich businessmen to their knees. The absolute beauty and craftsmanship eclipsed the main event. Forest by Jean Frank, the pride of seeing one's art being priced so strenuously gave a sense of achievement unlike another. 

"Pardon me," an attendant inconspicuously called to Igna. The auctions were well underway, the items were numbered and bid depending on their exquisiteness. Expected prices were dropped below the predictable margin. 

"Anything the matter?" 

"Please come with me," said he, "-lady Sophie would like a few words." 

"Excuse me," he nodded to Aceline and the kids, Saniata fell in love with the lute. She kept on admiring the instrument and wanting to play. A few strings were plucked randomly. 

An audience with the organizer. The large corridor shortly led backstage. The staff watched enviously. "This is an absolute shame. I can not believe my art is being elapsed by a trinket from another country," the accent heavily emphasized on 'R's woven into the dialect. 

"Ma'am," gestured the attendant.

"Lord Igna," her expression eased, a sigh of relief eluded her pressed lips inaudibly, "-glad you could make it."

"Who are you, mister?" refuted the troubled man. 

"Viscount of Glenda," returned a stern tone.

"Viscount or not," he spun and stared,"-I don't care." The attitude made up for the lack of height. A presumptuous beret and denim jacket didn't make for much of an impression. "-I blame you for my piece being inattentive."

"Monsieur Jean Frank, I'm terribly sorry for the misunderstanding. I do say my words without offense, an artist, genius or not, must keep his station in mind. You may have a way with paint and brush, the way the world is envisioned in thy mind is captivating, that I accept. Still, tis nobles and people of money who give thy work recognition. If not for them, the paintings might as well colors on a canvas. I have seen talented artists be subjected to reality and fall to the depths of hell. Don't be disrespectful towards others. I say, fair man with a brush, treat others as you'd wish to be treated." 

The auction of the painting concluded in the background for five million. 

"Well, mister Igna," he silently waited, "-thank you for the inspiration," he laughed, "-the confidence and aura of absolute control. You're the embodiment of all-mighty," the words trailed to rejoin his manager, a man whomst which bowed and apologized for the behavior.

"My sincere thanks," said Sophie, "-Jean can be annoying at times."

"Suppose talented artists care more about their pieces than the greedy. Speaking about money," the ring on display, "-watch the nobles slobber over my ring." 

"Our last entry," said the auctioneer, "-is a ring passed down the Haggard Dynasty. We're acquainted with King Staxius, arguably, the shrewdest man to ever walk the planet."