((No time limit guys. Create the fight you two want and PM me when you finish! Good Luck!))
((No time limit guys. Create the fight you two want and PM me when you finish! Good Luck!))
A strong sun shone through thin layers of greying clouds, its beams reflecting off the immaculate masonry that made up Radasanth's legendary Citadel. The great building reared up from the center of Radasanth like an eagle in its nest. The stone wings, each large enough to incorporate hundreds of rooms, extended gracefully away from the main structure. Few could say what magic had been used to produce such smooth contours in cobbled stone.
Jacob Narmolanya pulled the brim of his floppy canvas cap down to keep the sun out of his eyes. It was reflecting off the Citadel's stained glass windows at a bloody annoying angle, nearly blinding him. His horse Gunner grunted beneath him as they neared the magnificent building. They'd had only a short ride from the inn, and the grey dappled gelding was still not entirely awake without his morning feedbag. The half elf on the other hand felt vibrantly alert, sitting upright in the saddle with green eyes scanning his surroundings.
Jake had never fought in a tournament before. As a young teen he'd served in Tel Aglarim, firing arrow after arrow into the seething enemy horde. More recently he'd helped defend Underwood during the Corone Civil War, and throughout his stay became a well-known duelist in the small Concordian city. He'd beaten countless swordsmen wielding only his liviol tonfa, battering them until they could no longer stand. He did not take great pride in those victories, for his opponents were cut from a lower cloth. His instructor had likened the difference to silk and sifan; both looked similar, but for all of silk's rich smoothness, it could never approach the sturdiness of sifan cloth.
Do not enter that tourny, Joshua Cronen had warned him. Jake's instructor, the man who'd made him into such a uniquely skilled fighter, had not wanted his pupil on display.
I'm prepared for whatever it may bring, Jake had replied.
Would you be prepared to face me? I could be your opponent in such a tournament. Jake scowled at the memory and rejected the feeling with a shake of his shoulders. Cronen was a bloody demigod; the likelihood of facing an adversary close to his strength seemed scarce. Jake needed to compete, to measure himself against the best Althanas had to offer and see where his shadow fell. At least that was what he told himself.
Jake trotted Gunner to a halt and leaped out of the saddle. His long green cloak billowed behind him, the fine wool catching a gentle wind. He landed lightly on leather-booted feet and straightened his knees and back, tying Gunner's reins to one of the posts provided. His brown sifan pants and green lace-up shirt felt loose and comfortable as he flowed up the carved stone steps, a lone wolf on the prowl. His cased bow nestled on his back and his tonfa and quiver swayed gently on his belt. Inside his shirt lurked the secret weapon; an eagle feather quill which helped channel his magical abilities.
The thick double doors were propped open, so Jake walked right in. By some trick of light coming through stained glass, inside the Citadel seemed brighter than outside. Jake's steps were silent on the polished stone floors as he examined the masterpieces of artwork hung on the massive walls. Most depicted famous battles or exalted warriors whose names were written in histories across Althanas. A single monk stood in the center of the foyer, shaven head reflecting the light, smiling amber eyes welcoming.
"I'm er, here for the tourny," the youth said as he strode up to the monk, "the Blaze International? My name is Jake Narmolanya."
"Follow me," the monk said with a smile, and then whisked away, long robe snapping at his sandaled heels.
They walked down a short corridor into a bare room that bore only a table, a cot, and a simple oaken door with a brass knob. An oil lantern set on a wall bracket illuminated the small space.
"You may leave any personal items here," the monk indicated the table. Jake uncased his bow, leaving the long leather case on the table. After a moment he removed his cloak and hat and piled them on top. He gripped his redwood recurve bow and slapped his right hand against the bracer on his left wrist, checking its position. He touched the tonfa's crosspiece, and then grazed his fingers over the goose fletching of his arrows. Everything seemed in order.
"I'm ready," Jake said. The monk opened the door with a small bow. "Wish me bloody fortune, I suppose," Jake quipped as he plunged through the doorway.
The smell of the great forest Concorida greeted him on the other side. Jake laughed out loud. The monks had sent him to his forest! Where he'd grown up and spent most of his life. He stood in a large clearing bordered by beds of flowers and swatches of deadwood fallen from overhanging trees. A gentle breeze played in the long grass and teased the tips of the oaks and yews that dominated the region. Insects buzzed through clouds of sunlight and shadow, landing on orchids or amidst the loam.
Jake moved through the center of the circular field and took up a position on the opposite edge as the breeze tousled his dirty blond locks. He rubbed his nose with the bracer on his left arm and peered at the sky, freckled face crinkled against the glare. It was nearly noon; perhaps his opponent would arrive as the clock struck midday.
A spike of adrenaline lanced through the young half elf's veins at the thought. My opponent will arrive soon. I'm ready, he told himself, I am.