Final: (18) Circus v (2) Sons of Terrinore

[Max Dirks]

The finals will begin Friday at 12 AM EST. Good Luck!

[chumley]

“Lornius,” Chumley said to himself, marching down the main drag of a dingy, half-abandoned city on the edge of the continent. “A place that knows how to keep its secrets. A place the world forgot.” A drunken transient fell in his path, and Chumley daintily stepped over him, ignoring his pleas for spare change. Traveling through this worthless plot of land, he had gotten used to the jobless, the homeless, and the witless. He remembered a day when he would have stopped to share the Good Word with the fellow before moving on, but those days were past. Lornius did things to a man… bad things, things that only God would forgive, and even then only just barely. Chumley passed a crowd of men, straining to make their way towards a rusty gate marked with signs that were too blackened with age and grime to read.

”My boy,” Chumley called out to a gutter rat who was chewing a wad of tobacco for sustenance, “Are all those fine gentlemen headed towards the finals of the Lornius Corporate Challenge?” The child looked at him for a few seconds and then turned to spit a jet of slimy liquid before replying.

“Is that the tournament that nobody showed up for?” he whistled through the open space where a younger boy had knocked out his front teeth with a dead cat. “No, I think they’re all catching a ship out of here to see the next round of The Cell!” Chumley nodded sagely and continued on his way, tossing the boy a metal slug. “He won’t find out it’s a dime for a few minutes at least,” Chumley thought to himself, chuckles rumbling in his chest. He had received the slug as change after buying a lobster dinner in the town that turned out to be poorly disguised goat flank.

He continued along the street, seeing no businesses but obvious fronts for organized crime and bingo parlors. An old Jewish man approached him, locks swaying, muttering something in Yiddish, but Chumley slapped him away with a swift backhand. Openly, he blamed his dreary surroundings for his recent ill-temper, but deep in his heart he knew that wasn’t the real reason. Before him loomed the finals round of the LCC, and he had no idea why he was in it. As far as he could tell, he had no discernible talent for fighting, everyone he had met in this wretched place except for Ranger hated him, and he kept losing his battles. A woeful lack of preparation for or knowledge of what lay ahead blackened his thoughts and sickened his soul. He didn’t care if he won; after all, he had entered the tournament almost by mistake, signing a sheet of paper that he thought was a petition to re-legalize dueling. Now, ironically enough, he was locked in mortal combat without end.

“Oh direct characterization,” he laughed to himself. “What innermost thoughts won’t you reveal?”

Ahead of him, where the street dead-ended for no reason in a muddy, lopsided cul-de-sac, another milling mass of men was gathered. Chumley was more irritated by the poor design of the city than the prospect of pushing through all these people. The whole place was an amalgamation of half-measures, half-jobs and half-baked ideas. With great effort, he had managed to dig up a map of the continent, but it seemed to have been drawn by a buffoon who had no sense of scale or geography, and explained nothing about the place to him. Sighing heavily, Chumley reached the edge of the crowd and began nudging his way through, excusing himself profusely at each sneer or disgusting look. After a few fruitless minutes, a young lad, dressed in a burlap sack with a rope for a belt, leapt up and shoved a sheet of paper and a quill in his face.

“Sign the petition?” He barked, and Chumley, repulsed, signed the thing just to get him to back off. “Thanks so much,” the lad said. “For signing the petition to eject Chumley from the finals of the LCC!”

“WHAT?” Chumley cried, grabbing the boy by the ear and twisting it. Yelping, the young man squirmed and kicked, knocking down people all around, until an incredibly old man with ‘In case of heart failure, do not resuscitate’ written on a sign hanging from his neck, appeared, leaning on two canes and giving Chumley an evil look.

“So it’s you, is it?” He said, acidly. “Perhaps you don’t remember me. I am the Assistant to the Sitting Supervisor of Harrying, Accusations and Treatises, of the Althanas Purity Society.” Chumley did some computations in his head as he released the boy and smiled.

“So I guess that makes you the ASSHAT?” he quipped anachronistically. Dead silence responded. Even the crickets stopped chirping. A man began sobbing quietly in the distance. The old man sneered.

“You’ll find jokes don’t fare well here,” he said, coughing up part of his lung as dry as Sahara sand. “And yes, my society has been circulating a petition to eject you from the tournament for some time, now. Your actions have been a disgrace to the LCC and you don’t belong in it! What with your singing, your dancing, your ‘comedy’ routines. Who do you think you are, Bob Hope?” Chumley gave him a blank look.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand the reference,” he said, and the old man cringed.

“Just as I suspected!” he crowed. “You’ll go to any length to ruin one of the best tournaments ever!”

“I read that in the promotional materials,” Chumley replied, nodding and pulling out a brochure with ‘Lornius: Its Sights and Smells’ written across it. “But I stopped by the Cell a few days ago and I must say, it was a lot better than…”

“SILENCE!” Cried the old man, swinging at him with one cane. He moved so slowly that Chumley actually felt pity for him, and didn’t dodge the agonizingly glacial blow. Like a feather falling on a pillow, it touched his shoulder, and he sighed, resigned, and pretended to be in great pain, moaning and wailing while clutching at his unwounded arm. At that moment, a vast shadow spread over the surrounding crowd, which had shrunken somewhat in boredom. Chumley looked up to see a hot air balloon descending overhead, a rope ladder extending down from the basket. Guy Baptiste had once again come to the rescue. Grinning, he reached up and grabbed the lowest rung.

“Excuse me, my merry men,” He replied. “But I have music to make and dances to dance in the final round of the LCC!” With that, the hot air balloon rose into the air, and the crowd began muttering in astonishment.

“I think not, Chumley!” Cried the old man before collapsing into a coughing fit. But it was too late. Whether he deserved it or not, Chumley was headed for the spectacular finale of a series of forfeited battles. The balloon sailed over hill and dale, through misty fog and between blinding rays of sunlight, between flitting doves and sharp-eyed hawks. Chumley hung in space, introspecting like only an elephant can introspect, thinking about life experiences that really showed the depth of his character. “People always said I was a one-trick pony,” Chumley muttered to himself, remembering once in school when a bully had slapped the back of his head and insulted his clavier playing, “But they’ve always been wrong. And this is my chance to prove it, once and for all, to all of them. Those bullies can’t chase me out of here.”

A surging feeling in his chest alerted the elephant to the fact that the place and time of battle had arrived. As if he, too, felt this call, Guy Baptiste began manipulating the machinery of the balloon, bringing it slowly down from the sky to the earth below. As the balloon neared the ground, Chumley released the rope ladder and hit the ground with a dull thump. Hearing the thud, Guy shot a jet of flame into the silk pocket of air above him and sailed off into the sulfur-tinged sky.

“What, praytell, is this?” Chumley muttered to himself, looking around. He was standing on some kind of wooden platform, its edges shrouded in shadow, no light penetrating the murk surrounding him, nothing visible beyond arm’s length. The elephant had the feeling, not for the first time in this place, that he was utterly alone. All feelings were dashed from his mind as a blinding light struck down upon him from above. Guarding his face, Chumley winced back, his mind reeling, but dared to look between his arms at the scene before him, which had burst into livid color. It was still difficult to see beyond the halo of the spotlight, but he could tell what lay in front of him well enough for his penumbra of loneliness to shatter as a swelling feeling of belonging and certainty flooded his consciousness.

“Why, it’s a concert hall!” he thought to himself gleefully. And indeed it was, albeit empty. He stood at the conductor’s spot, teetering on an old soapbox. Dozens of chairs, instruments laid delicately across their seats, ringed him at his back, and hundreds of empty rows stretched out before him, balconies and presidential boxes hanging from the walls, lights dangling from the ceiling. The curtains were drawn, the air was pregnant, and the room was expectant.

“I wonder how Guy lowered that balloon through the ceiling,” Chumley thought to himself. “No matter. Ranger will soon be here. And with him… the Sons of Terrinore, whoever they are.”

[Ranger]

The serenity of the woods was only supplanted by the peace which touched the often troubled soul of the drow prophet. A crown of branches stretched towards the noonday sun, casting an emerald glow on the soft path underfoot. The drow’s silver eyes flickered with thought as the sounds of the noon forest barely rose to his sharp, gray-tinted ears. A worn, calloused hand slowly pushed aside loose strands of hoary hair. Ranger turned at the sound of a deer, jerking away from the broad road. Not even a smile found his face as he moved on, taking slow, light steps.

Before him the forests broke and the picturesque town of Underwood came to the sight of the drow. Time and time again he had been a visitor to the gentle town; time and time again a warm welcome had been extended. Woodsmen walked with armloads of fresh cut oak, the sweet aroma of the wood’s yet drying sap drifting with the soft breeze. Women’s idle chattered mixed with the song of the birds, slowly overtaking it as he grew closer. Small children ran without shoes through the streets, laughing and playing without heed to the world around them.

When Ranger finally came within distance of a few of the first group of women their chatter stopped and smiles replaced their faces. The drow nodded to them politely. The children noticed the approaching figure as they slowed their game, which appeared of running in circles. At first their eyes scanned the curious figure, the fresh black trousers, clean long-sleeve white shirt, and vibrant green vest foreign to them. When the bright silver flair of hair and equally brilliant eyes of the well known prophet were close enough to discern, however, the children squealed in glee.

Underwood’s denizens slowly emerged when the news of the prophet returned. Men clapped his shoulders, women gave joyous salutations, and the children clung to his legs as the others laughed and danced around the crowd of people. Ranger put his rough hands in the shaggy, dirty blonde hair of the children to either side, tossing the mop of hair about. His face was bright with a smile, the sharp cheekbones of his noble features a start contrast to the round human faces around him.

“Ranger! Welcome back!” Some called, cheering on the return of their prophet friend. “We heard much about you!” others called, “And that you were in the finals! With that elephant!”

Eventually the crowd surged towards the Promenade, pulling the drow with them as they assaulted him with titters of laughter and a cacophony of compliments. As the inside of the tavern was filled with the fine people of Underwood Ranger took his time and looked over the town that had sent him on his way to the Lornius Corporate Challenge. It looked much the same, never seeming to actually change anything.

The sturdy redwood beams and walls were still held the lackluster whitewash that they had months before. The tables well worn surfaces yet held the glossy coat that had been fresh the months prior. All in all, the dusty little lumber town was well and showed it. Ranger was glad to see it true. “So what happened? We have heard rumor from passing merchants and travelers alike about the tournament.”

“It is a long story, to say true,” Ranger commented as he picked up a glass of water that the waitress had brought him. He sipped it as a barrage of questions peaked by his few words suddenly overwhelmed him. “I will give it to you all in due time, dear friends. What do you wish to know about the most though; I will give you that for now.”

The answer was an overwhelming desire to know about the finals. Ranger sighed, but the noise went unnoticed with the clamor of the people. In truth the finals was not the interesting part of the tournament for the drow. In truth, none of the tournament itself was interesting, having but one true battle while the rest were decided by those moderating. The inactivity of the tournament and the flukes that had brought the team of Circus to the finals was not what the prophet considered an interesting tale.

But he would grant them their wish nonetheless. “The finals you say?” He took another sip with a smile before beginning. “Our opponents were the honorable and prestigious General Thoracis and the criminal Max Dirks, who formed the team labeled Sons of Terrinore.

“Between the two was amassed a pool of talent that I and Chumley could hardly hope to compare to. I will begin, I suppose, when I walked in and…

<.< -_- >.>

…the opponents we were to be facing were unimpressively late. I had walked through the grand double doors of the amphitheatre with a huff. It was mid-day on the humid island of Lornius, and despite the slightly salt-scented drifting zephyr floating from the ocean I was sweating. My worn clothes had been replaced because of the final round, the tattered rags I had been wearing having been, quote “inappropriate for a LCC finalist”. I was a pair of leather boots much like my old, worn pair. Tucked into those were my black trousers. Covering my torso was a tight white shirt, long sleeved but loose at the elbows and above that was the black leather jerkin studded with steel.

Thankfully all of it had cost half as much as it normally should have. Apparently people on Lornius took well to a finalist. But I felt as if I was cheating the good island people, knowing that it was but a farce that I and my companion had made it so far in the tournament. I am not saying that we were without skill, by any means, but it seemed that our pathway towards the match between Circus and the Sons of Terrinore was… too easy to say the least.

However, that is not the topic of discussion.

Behind me trailed a rather large man, who despite the heat and his attire did not seem touched by any perspiration. His drab brown robes swirled at his feet as he walked, and the lackluster golden amulet around his neck tapped quietly against his muscular chest. “Prophet,” he said in his monotone and flat voice, “you are too be late to the finals if you do not hurry.”

I needed no encouragement from the disciple of Hromagh, I feared that my opponents would have already arrived and began the confrontation without me. I turned on the man, stopping dead in my tracks before the final set of doors. His stone blue eyes, flecked with gray caught my own silver eyes and for a second the silence between us had a tangible weight. “You are not here to direct me, but wait till I have finished this final round and then escort me to Kachuk. If your master wished it of you to direct my steps he would have ordered it. Please, remain here until I return.”

The man, slightly dejected by the request, turned and walked up a flight of stairs to my flank. A sigh passed my tight, thin lips. At least the man would be out of the way, I had thought as I turned to the final door and passed through its archway. Before me the empty room was empty, aside from the large pachyderm acting as if he was the director of some grand performance.

Through minor cracks along the walls, and the ceiling too, light drifted in. The plaster was cracked and flaking, the bronze paint along the banisters and lining the boxes was dull with the passing of time. A smell of mold, dust, and stale air swirled about my face when I took a few small tentative steps towards my companion. My movement sent ripples of dust in a wake like a wave. With the delicate patches of light flickering through the swirling dust it was almost an ethereal, dream-like world that civilization had left behind.

“Good day Chumley,” I had called through the expanse between us. The words caught the walls and bowed inwards, refracting and reflecting just as well as the chamber would have in its older days. “I hope all fairs well with you? Our opponents are absent as per usual I see…”

Another sigh escaped my lips. Another swirl of upset soot displaced itself through the air. Impatience rose and my hands tapped the closest chair, the tips of my fingers rang against the old steel frames. Where were our opponents? Why were they late? Would it be another free round, the bloody finals, where we were allowed to pass without a fight? The questions were my only companion as time lingered.

[Max Dirks]

One by one, Max Dirks flipped the dusty switches and lit the old concert hall, proving that he was not as late as he seemed. When he finished, Dirks quickly left the booth. This was the second tournament final that the former criminal had graced. In the first he participated as an unwanted guest in an ungrateful army, but this time around the glory was all for him. Or was it? The Sons of Terrinore’s reign in the tournament was bent by greed. Since Dirks and Thoracis were united at the end of the first round, they both could taste the championship on the tip of their tongues. At first it was sweet, but last round Dirks discovered a particularly sour aftertaste. The intensity of the tournament made Dirks forget why he was fighting in the first place. He was fighting to be reunited with his love, Starlynn, and only Thoracis knew of her whereabouts (as he had previously kidnapped her). Dirks was forced to help the ice mage become champion in order to find her. In his struggle with the remnants of Malice, Dirks found that he was not as detached as he thought from the life he’d thrown away for her. Until then, Dirks never realized how much Starlynn meant to him.

Dirks turned a corner, and then broke into the silent, rundown theater. For the first time in the tournament, Dirks arrived without Thoracis at his side. It was time to fight for what he wanted, and not as a pawn to complete someone else’s desperate fantasy. Team Circus stood before him. A magical elephant and an elfish cleric held the keys that would free him from all that had befallen him. It was all black and white. Beat them and find Starlynn. Lose to them and never see her again. Chumley stood proudly on the conductor’s box, a place where the elephant would feel right at home. The cleric, Prophet Nailo, was closer. He stood near near a bottom row of seats and had engaged his strange partner in conversation.

Without a word, Dirks reached his hands over his shoulders and pulled down one of his twin prevalida katanas. Over the course of the tournament, both weapons had gone from shiny metallic silver to a dull gray. The flesh of many had been rubbed clean from them. Dirks relied primarily on his swords for the duration of the tournament, which was another indication to him how much he’d changed. They felt more natural in Dirks’ hands and he was much less clumsy with them. His guns, like Starlynn, were now only something that he turned to when he had nothing else left.

Dirks did not stop until he was right next to Nailo. “I'm sorry elf, but your impressive little run must come to an end.” Without any other warning, Dirks reached to his right and grabbed one of the rotted seats. He yanked hard to pull it free from the ground and then swung it hard towards Nailo’s face. However, the chair was just a clever diversion. The real attack followed in secret. Dirks turned his body and swung his prevalida katana through the chair. It easily snapped through the seat sending shards of wood flying everywhere. But the former criminal's weapon did not stop there. The blade continued on a direct path towards Nailo's neck.

[Thoracis]

Shrouded in darkness amongst the rear seats of the theatre Thoracis Rakarth sat silently, patiently awaiting the start of the most important battle of his life. The nervousness and anxiousness that had ate at him the previous rounds was now a distant memory - he had finally broke the threshold, getting past the semi’s and into the finals - now his long coveted victory was at hand and all but assured. All that stood before him now was Circus, another of the crowd pleasing comical teams that inevitably made the finals every year. It was a shame that few people would witness their downfall. Year after year Thoracis was pitted against these teams and year after year he destroyed them, only to lose in the end due to his partner’s absence. But he was smarter this time around. He had solidified his partner, albeit through manipulation and deceit, and now that Dirks was mere moments from Starlynn he knew that he would get the criminals best.

The elephant Chumley was the first to arrive, unexpectedly dropping from a ladder that itself had seemed to come from nowhere. Apparently the stories Thoracis had heard of the elephant’s capers were to be believed. Not that any of them would do him an ounce of good considering what lay before the wise-cracking beast. Ranger was next. This half of the team Thoracis was much more familiar with. The drow cleric wasn’t exactly a nobody, but he was surely not in the same class as Thoracis or Dirks. Words were briefly exchanged between the two when the real fun began.

Starting to Thoracis’ right the theatre lights sparked to life, one by one, until eventually the final one revealed the presence of the ice mage. Lounged back in a theatre seat, legs kicked up on the seat before him, Thoracis was resplendent in new attire of his own. His freshly bleached robes reflected the theatre’s light with an almost divine aura, which only made darker the void that was created by the black porcelain mask beneath his hood. Not an inch was budged as Max Dirks emerged from backstage, wasting no time in erupting into battle. So perfect… Thoracis thought, feeling very much like the producer of the show at hand.

With his partner’s sudden, violent upheaval Thoracis knew he had an opportunity to take advantage of the situation. Still without a word or even a flinch of movement the ice mage focused on the box in which Chumley was standing. Almost instantly and without warning a massive stalagmite of ice burst from the ground directly below the elephant.

It was an excellent opening scene - the untested and incapable newcomers finding themselves suddenly overwhelmed by the battle-hardened veterans. The only question now was whether or not they had the resolve to deal with such a disadvantage. Thoracis already knew the answer though… Like Kylin Rouge and Edmund Lorisiac, Chromonon Rockskin and the demon Ter-Thok and others of their ilk that came before them, Ranger Nailo and Chumley de Rochfeltingham would fall by the hands of the ice mage.

[chumley]

"Ranger!" Chumley smiled at the welcome, familiar face. "Words cannot express how relieved I am to see you." He placed his hands on his hips and waved with his trunk. "I think it would not be contentious to say that neither of us ever expected to be here today. It feels suitable that I should propose some sort of toast, 'though we lack glasses, but I really am at a loss for words. If only I could sum up my motivations for fighting in the LCC in one sentence, or encapsulate my personal history with this tournament in one easily digestible plot summary!" Shaking his head at his own ineptitude, Chumley simply gazed upon the drow's face, drinking in its serenity and certainty, relishing what perhaps would be the last moment of peace for him today. Ranger's rituals and paganism had at first disgusted the elephant, but it was impossible to deny the fellow's good nature, steadfastness, and gumption. Who could forget the adventures they had shared in the tournament thus far, the trials of combat, the nervous boredom of waiting for advancement results, the quiet fear of loss and rejection, always unspoken but never unfelt.

Spots were still flashing before Chumley's eyes as a figure appeared at the edge of the stage. Through the teary blurriness, however, he could make out an armed man. As the elephant focused on the attacker, obviously one of these self-styled "Sons of Terrinore," he could feel a warmness spreading in his chest like warm syrup filling a bucket. Time crawled to a stop, all sound and sensation fading, the world once again vanishing as if an inkwell had toppled over the theater. Chumley was once again alone, but across that interminable darkness stood another man, lifting a chair from the ground. His face was slashed by bitterness, his features twisted, but his beauty was unmistakable. Muscles heaved below his clothes, a light dew of sweat glowing on his forehead. He was a vision of the human form so exquisite as to be created by a fallen god compensating for his own dark failings. Chumley stepped toward him, nearly falling from the conductor's box, drawn towards the man shoving a sword towards his only friend.

"What a long sword," Chumley muttered through his breath, suddenly caught short and gasping, watching the weapon plunge through the wood towards Ranger's back "And what magnificent penetration..." The elephant caught the plaudits in his throat, a burning anger replacing the muzzy, sublime euphoria spilling through his chest. It flamed against him, frustration at himself, upset confusion roiling within, guilt and shame and sadness licking up in unusual contortions of emotion. This strange rage was not unfamiliar, and memories, buried under more benign experiences, began flooding back. That young Mexican in Baja. The effete hat salesman in Carson City. The postmaster in Sarsaparilla Junction.

“No! Not me!” Chumley cried, time falling back into place, the world snapping into bright color. “To arms, Ranger!” An explosion behind him, a smashing of wood and a squealing whine like glass bottles rubbing against each other, nearly floored the elephant, and he stumbled, his arms flailing at the sword attacking Ranger, trying to alert him, hoping he had already sensed the assault. Whatever blast had erupted where Chumley had just stood, it marked a trap. His head still spinning with fierce conjurations of emotion and memory, the elephant stumbled into the rows of chairs and instruments on stage, grabbing for whatever he could use to defend himself. It was cowardly to leave Ranger to fend for himself, but Chumley was certain that he would be more of a hindrance than a help against the attacker. And he could not bare to look into those cold eyes, eyes that might swallow him in their sensuous depths, drowning him and dooming his partner. Snatching at two piccolos, Chumley tucked them into his jacket and pushed chairs aside, grabbing a vicious alto saxophone and hefting it like a sword. He turned around, his eyes flying over the pillar of ice sticking through the stage, waving the instrument dangerously, looking around the concert hall for his attacker. Only a few feet beyond the stage, all was indistinct, a veil of shadow made all the more impassable by the bright lights shining down from above.

“Great Seward’s Folly!” he cried. “How many sons does Terrinore have, and what evil magics will they employ next?”

[Ranger]

It was good to see my friend and companion in good health. His long snout waved as if it had a mind of its own. Even with the looming threat of the Sons of Terrinore I could not help but smile at the man. He was a marvel, always able to put up a joyous front, so eloquent in his speech patterns and movements both. I thanked the Thayne that I had been given such a useful partner, though odd at first we had developed into a rather good team.

When the lights in the ruined theatre sparked to life I could do nothing but look overhead and turn around. A grand chandelier-like fixture hung from the ceiling, flooding the empty seats with seven tiers of lighting that came to a wide point. It was impressive, but it was far from what it probably once had been, many of the points where light should have been flowing from were black. Though my attention was snapped away when Chumley roared.

What I saw was the infamous Dirks, moving with all speed towards me.

---
“You saw Max Dirks?” one of the little boys asked. His eyes were wide with surprise and a childish grin crossed his face. Others looked a lot like him, most not believing that the man was real. In Corone he was a myth, a legend. To the drow he was the vestige of a world passing, a flickering memory on the edge of dying. “What did he look like?”

“He looked no different than you,” Ranger said as he pointed at one of the farmers. “He’s stands just over six feet, weighing probably nothing more then two hundred pounds. Though I am a bad judge of human physique, but he did not appear the monster that people tell about. He was, however, far from honorable like they say.”
---

I was drawing the two blades from my back just as he approached. Luckily Chumley had called me to arms when he did, for Dirks had little consideration for respect. His reputation preceded him. Without a second thought a burst of light appeared and deflected a heavy, putrid chair. Following on its tail was the dull sword that he was wielding throughout the tournament.

The dual blades clapped together at the hilt. They clashed together with the longsword, a deafening and cacophonous noise that echoed throughout the area. I did not attempt to stop the momentum, but instead allowed his blade to slip away from its intended target. As they touched I leapt away.

Tightly packed, the rows of chairs gave little room to battle between. But I jumped away anyway, giving me time to think and room to attack. The criminal was strong, his blades were expensive, and his aggression was surprising. Where the sword had contacted the twin shortswords notches were present, grooves were the higher grade metal had literally torn into my blades. It seemed the man was “superior” just like all the rumors had made him out to be.

“He’s in the back!” I screamed to Chumley, who was obviously at a loss. The human instruments were crude and held the lackluster sheen of age, but in the hands of the elephant seemed precariously intimidating. Just as quickly as I yelled I returned my attention to Dirks. “Impressive?” I asked.

I laughed as I stepped onto the two armrests between the rotten seats. Underfoot the old frames groaned with my weight and the cushions gave a cough of mildew and long since settled dust. “I would count our “run” far from impressive,” I retorted as I balanced. “We were gratefully given leave to advance through teams that were as diligent and faithful to each other as a pack of mercenaries. This tournament has been a farce since the beginning.”

I was vindictive and tired, a combination that was deadly under the circumstances. It just happened that the two decided to come to bear as soon as the nefarious rogue and his equally devious opponent began their disgraceful assault. In a split second I was pushing from my seat, bounding as if my legs were powerful springs. I had plenty of weight to push my momentum, and mixed with the grace of an elf I was probably a beautiful sight to see.

The twin swords danced through the air. The intended target was the man’s shoulders, or arms in general. Whichever I could get at without having a sword impale me was the goal.

[Max Dirks]

The katana continued until it slammed hard into the prophets’ own blades. The remnants of the chair forced Dirks to turn away to avoid taking a salvo of wood pieces in the eyes. Nailo used the time to back away and balance himself on top of a row of seats. Dirks took the hilt of his blade into both hands and slowly approached the drow. His legs squeezed through the aisle, but he held the katana high to allow for a full frontal swing if need be.

Dirks listened intently as Nailo spoke. It was pleasing to hear that his opponent shared the same sentiment as he did about the tournament. When Nailo mentioned the word ‘farce,’ Dirks took a quick glance at Thoracis who was now visible in one of the far rows. It was true that the ice mage had released a monster, but Thoracis wasn’t solely responsible for sustaining it. Dirks wanted to win, but he also wanted to be with Starlynn. He needed her to be free of the monster, but couldn’t have her without becoming it. That was his excuse. He would not stop until the Sons of Terrinore were champions. That was the real farce.

“I’m glad we agree then,” Dirks replied, turning his attention back to his opponent. Nailo offered no immediate retort. He wasted no time, leaping from his position down at the former criminal. The graceful drow lowered his twin swords, attempting a full frontal slice of Dirks’ clavicle. The speed of the attack left little time for Dirks to pull down his own katana and try a deadly counter so instead Dirks relied on his strength. He held his katana flat, allowing Nailo’s swords to crash into his weapon. The inertia of the attack pressed the weapons towards the former criminal, so much so that the tip of one sword edged Dirks’ shoulder and left a small cut. Angry but unfazed, Dirks pushed up on his weapon, attempting to send the prophet flying into another line of chairs before he had a chance to land.

Suspecting Nailo to be temporarily out of the fray, Dirks turned his attention to the raving elephant, silently pulling his small steel dagger from its sheath as he did so.

[Thoracis]

It would have been foolish to believe that the battle could be ended so quickly. Thoracis knew that. It was still very agitating to see both opponents escape, albeit narrowly, from his and Dirks’ abrupt attacks. And while Chumley ran about like an elephant with his trunk cut off, Ranger managed to make matters worse by drawing first blood against Dirks. All Thoracis could do was shake his head in disgust… Was this really what he and Dirks had become?

Thoracis arose from his seat, finally, and with a great deal more anger then when he had taken it. He was not here to be bested by a team which wasn’t deserving of the finals by their own admission. Yet the first moments of battle were making that outcome seem pretty likely. Unfortunately for the members of Circus they were going to force Thoracis to take a much more hands on approach then he had planned. Making his way down the aisle and towards the stage he watched Dirks turn from Ranger to Chumley, drawing a dagger as he did so. “You better pull your head out of your ass. You know she's counting on you more then ever,” he called to Dirks’ back, half serious and half to simply try and motivate the man.

With his liviol staff at the ready in his icy left hand Thoracis pulled back his hood as he stalked toward the drow. Powerful as he was rumored to be Thoracis knew that Ranger was not really a match for him. Though smaller in stature the ice mage was undoubtedly stronger and faster then the dark elf and Thoracis was far more practiced in melee combat then Dirks was. Not only that, but Thoracis had spent nearly a quarter of his life training amongst Ranger’s people; learning their ways, learning their tactics, leading their armies. Had Thoracis any intentions on allowing Ranger to attack his moves would be easily anticipated.

The space between Thoracis and Ranger was half closed when the mage sprung forth, moving at the drow with every bit of magically enhanced speed he could muster. Twenty-five feet became ten almost instantly. Thoracis’ staff was held with an underhand grip, parallel to his forearm - a blade of ice extended from the staff’s end which was concealed by his body. A single step past ten feet and Thoracis would have disappeared to the drow. In one motion with that last step Thoracis teleported past and behind Ranger, drawing his staff up in both hands, and thrusting the blade of ice behind him. With any luck the first Ranger would realize of what had just happened would be to see the icy blade protruding from his impaled torso.

[chumley]

Chumley's piggy eyes flitted over the hall, still unable to pick out his second opponent. Whoever he was, he was still invisible, hidden behind a shield of darkness, peering at Chumley from afar, lurking like a ghoul, commanding ice to jump forward at his maniacal whim. The elephant turned to look backstage, searching among drawn curtains and piles of sandbags for the devilish fellow. He was, however, nowhere to be found, and Chumley felt the cold fingers of fear drumming on his spine. "Good gracious," he thought, "What if he's invisible?" The elephant drew his shoulders, holding the saxophone in front of him as threateningly as possible, jerking his head around, trying to find the rustle of a curtain, the squeak of a moving chair that might denote the approach of some unseen enemy. There was nothing. Chumley supposed that should comfort him, but if anything it only tightened panic's grip on him.

The elephant turned, watching the statuesque swordsman disengage from Ranger. Chumley felt a twinge of pity and shame, hoping Ranger had fended for himself, but those emotions fled from him as he locked eyes with the mysterious warrior, whose chiseled features and burliness were nothing if not breathtaking. And indeed, Chumley's breath was taken. He gasped, eyes widening, and felt the saxophone wobbling in his sweaty hands. His cheeks flushed as best they could, and his eyes began watering. Moving his heavy tongue, he tried to force out a joke, but all that came out of his wavering, cracking voice was:

"Do you come here often?"

Chumley grimaced, cursing himself internally, and tried not to let his luscious opponent see his inner anguish. "He must think I'm so uncool!" Chumley thought to himself. "If only he knew about my intrusion into the Cell! Drawing attention to myself like that was really cool, no doubt about that!" Drawing up all his courage, he tried again, this time affecting as much confidence as he could.

"You know, I showed up at the first round of the Cell a few days ago and I... uh... got... thrown out..." Chumley grimaced again, and retreated a few steps, his saxophone useless at his side. "So... I'm serious business!"

A disembodied voice called out, spewing vulgarities at Chumley's opponent. Some movement, a flash in the space beyond the platform, caught his eye. It was a man, rushing through the darkness toward Ranger, most likely the same who had called out. It all came together for Chumley - the ice pillar, the voice, the attack on Ranger - this man was the second Son of Terrinore! Chumley cried out, and with all his energy flung the saxophone toward where he hoped the man would converge with Ranger. He hoped Ranger would be okay, but it was more important to do what he could to help him than let hesitations hold him back. These Terrinore guys were strong, but they couldn't do half of what his team could do with a little teamwork. "You don't spell 'victory' V-I-C-T-O-R-Y, you spell it T-E-A-M!" Chumley thought to himself.

But he realized with a sinking shock that he was standing empty handed in front of the most fearsome opponent he had yet met in the LCC - one who simultaneously attacked his body and his heart.