The Treslizn Chamber

[Ailnea]

Ailnea was terrified out of her wits. How could she be this unlucky? She must've been given the short straw in a random draw somewhere, because her superiors in the order of the Aibrone monks asked her to represent them in The Cell tournament.

She didn't want to be here, she had explained such to Grandmaster Onox.

“But Ailnea my dear,” he said with patience and wisdom, “The Cell will provide you with a chance that's difficult to obtain under ordinary circumstances. You'll go toe to toe with living legends. Just think of the learning opportunities.”

“I already know what a painful agonizing death feels like.” Ailnea protested.

“Victory and success brings lessons, yes. But remember, initiate, failure and defeat bring even more lessons.” Grandmaster Onox said, as he turned and walked away.

“Yes, Grandmaster.” Ailnea said between clenched teeth.

Ailnea spent the days leading up to the tournament considering the possibility of abandoning the order and fleeing into obscurity. She didn't want to be here, and it showed, her eyes flicking left and right in fear wondering who was going to kill her in what gruesome manner.

The doors opened, and people started to file in. She didn't join the initial rush, she slowly wandered in, trying to be the last one in, hoping everyone else would be too busy fighting each other to care about her.

Her entire battle strategy could be summed up to one single word, run. She planned on running away from every fight, from every opponent. If she was going to be killed, they'd have to catch her first, she didn't even want to be here. As it was, she was hoping the sight of her monk robes, and Aibrone medallion would afford her some grace.

~~~

Like Dissinger, Limited Bunnying of Ailnea is okay with me, and I grant permission to do so. Anything more involved than a few swings should be worked out through PM's first.

[Arsène]

Minor Clarification Errors fixed in editing, and no more.

Morning gales were always the most regrettable. The rising sun illuminated a colorless sky abound in upheaval. Clear droplets whipped around the drenched ground, actively searching out the driest spots to splatter and soak. It was the morning when men are at their most disorganized; the time when most diurnal creatures would forget an umbrella. It was near dawn, or just before it, when Arsène found himself in the small backyard of a family friend; a friend close enough to allow him to sanctify the earth with the precious cargo of his paramour’s remains that year ago. A large boulder, chipped by unskilled hands, were all the remainder of a lost love that still managed to haunt the man’s waking hours.

As he stood upon ground a year earlier he would have kneeled upon, he almost managed a shameful smile. Arsène from a year ago would have trembled and wept. Arsène from a year ago would bemoan and lament, all the while plucking at the strings of his violin, and seeping drippy words of putridly pathetic poetry upon page after page of privately kept memoirs.

He had grown in the time since then; though his melancholy was as plain as the scowling nose on his face, he killed his crippling emotions through the passage of hours and minutes spent on mindless distractions and existential quandaries.

The night before his visit to the grave, he had gone to the red bricks and cobblestone streets that housed the tailor and cobbler, who refined his favorite black suit and shoes into a masterpiece, out of the mediocrity it had become from misuse. Later on, he traveled up the roads of Radasanth to the blacksmith, who sharpened his client’s blade to the best steel would allow. Finally, as the moon shone for but a brief second between the claps of thunderous clouds, he went to every temple in the area. He heard sermons as fiery as the candlelight that lapped the preachers’ faces. He hung on their words without dismissal or disgust, all in hopes of having some enlightenment at the end of the issue.

Death, that terrible fiend that choked the life out of his bride, became a morbid fascination to Arsène in the later months since her passing; but it wasn’t her death that interested him the most. Despite a suave attire and Romantic attitude that would make young Werther envious, Arsène had yet to bring himself to that tried and true method of reuniting young lovers across eternity; suicide. A month after his wife’s death, he attempted auto-defenestration, only to realize that a second flood inn window did not have the desired affect.

From Arsène’s pocket, he produced a single rose, crushed by the long walk to the house from the city. Placing it gingerly on the boulder, and with a tender kiss to the stone, he departed to an event that had peaked his interests.

“Anastasia…” He muttered, muted as he was by the wind and rain.

**

As the doors to the cell opened, he breathed a sigh of relief. At least he could dry off for a moment after his run to the city. People outside the arena, faces lit up in joie de vivre over the spectacle of it all, had no real impact on his disposition, or his mission.

Death, that constant companion that grows closer every year, was with him. He wanted to experience it, even if it was only a mock-up of the real thing. He knew the damned priests would bring him back somehow. But this competition allowed a coward to live dying, and see what his options were for future contemplation on untimely demises.

The battles had already begun, but Arsène merely found himself a quiet corner to take his jacket off. His violin and bow in one hand, and the sword in the other, he placed his jacket and sword on the floor of the cage; and despite all the sounds and cries and overly dramatic speeches going on around him, Arsène began to play a tune he knew from home. A strong and powerful number, it was the classic heroic whine of glory and valor.

Albious was inbred; there was no way to get around that fact. It was a small island colonized for millennia, where ruling families attempted to stay as close knit as possible. Because of this, the peasantry circulated rumors of the aristocrats inability to use or be affected by magic; monk's resurrecting abilities would prove all but useless if that were the case.

It was an amusing parlor story, and Arsène was about to test the plebian hypothesis.

That did not mean he planned to go down without a fight, however.

[Bloodrose]

The adamantine door barring him entry to the great arena swung open, and Teric smiled. He'd travelled so far to arrive here; traversing the length of Salvar on foot as he wound southward from the States. He'd crossed the border into neighboring, war-torn Raiaera with nothing but the clothes on his back and the weapons in his hands to fend off the undead that still plagued that land. Boarding a ship in Tennaiglini, the mercenary had plied the waves to Radasanth; a city in which he certainly wasn't welcome, and certainly wasn't missed.

Teric Barton had travelled a long way for a fight, and woe-be-it to his eleven fellows if the veteran went home unsatisfied.

"Insane" was the adjective his good friend Pembleton had used when the old war dog arrived unannounced at his doorstep, and the accountant may have had a point. Few enough were those who saw the appeal in throwing oneself into a cage alongside a dozen others with murderous intent, but even fewer still were those who actually sought such diversions.

Teric anticipated the usual tournament archetypes. There would be the heroes; warriors of both light and dark that undoubtedly attached some grander, more honorable cause to their base reasons for competing. The mercenary made a habit of avoiding this type at the onset of each battle, not necessarily because he was wary of them, but because they would most certainly be found praising the advantages of their particular beliefs, while at the same time playing doomsayer to everyone else. Later, when the exertions of battle left them with little breath to spare, Teric would test their convictions without having to suffer their flowery speeches.

After the heroes would come the green-horns; men and women too young to fully appreciate the intricacies and unforeseen dangers of an open battlefield. The Citadel this was not, and yet spectacles such as "The Cell" always seemed to draw a fair number of aspiring young adventurers. Teric was confident that he could wade through the majority of those that fell into this category without issue, but there was always the wild-card factor with untested fighters.

Lastly came the archetype Teric could most closely associate with: the fame-seekers. These were the individuals who considered their skills to be of a caliber worth promoting, and without the shackles of some cause or religion to weigh them down, were the most likely to admit why they were really here. These individuals had entered the Cell because they thought they could win it, and weren't afraid to prove it. Yes, the fame-seekers were the closest thing Teric had to kindred spirits in this adamantine cage, but even they fell short of why Teric had crossed two countries and an ocean to be here. Teric was not simply great at fighting - he actually took joy in it.

For the veteran, it wasn't necessarily about the fame, or the money, or the thrill of the kill; at least not wholly. For Teric it was the pure, unadulterated sense of competition inherent in armed combat that truly appealed to him. What other form of sport pitted individuals against one another in such a fashion? Win and you go home. Lose and you die, albeit those that fell this day would surely be resurrected later.

The adrenaline that accompanied knowing that one mistake might result in cold steel sliding between your ribs was Teric's drug of choice, and that was why Teric continuously threw himself headlong into these spectacles.

I just hope that someone in there can make me feel it. Teric almost prayed as he strode through the doorway and into the muddy arena with a cool sense of resoluteness that only age and experience could bring. Saber in his right hand, and with his sword strapped to his left, Teric started sizing up the competition.

The trip will have been poorly spent if I come out unharmed on the other side... He found himself thinking.

[Christoph]

"Just stop worrying and enter the tournament," she encouraged.

"I must say that I find this paradigm reversal between us very ironic," said Elijah, falling into his loquacious speaking habits, as he always did around Sarah. Receiving only a few odd looks, the odd pair walked through the streets of Radasanth on their way to the staging area for the curious 'Cell' competition. For once, Eli seemed less than enthused.

"Irony is by its very nature a reverse of paradigm," replied Sarah. She adjusted her gold-rimmed spectacles and rolled her eyes. "And I would argue that you find nearly everything ironic."

"My dear, I would take offense to that--"

"Were it not completely true, yes. I know." She rolled her eyes again; she did that a lot around Elijah for some reason.

He’d known Sarah for three months, but he still didn’t quite know what to think of her. It wasn’t that she defied classification, but rather that her classification seemed to shift faster than the phases of the moon.

She first approached him after Elijah had defeated a prominent Warrior to gain his position within the hierarchy, bubbling with flattery and overenthusiastic interest in his career. She played the role of a sycophant, albeit a cute one; he was partial to blonde-haired women, so it worked out. Eventually, he concluded that she wasn’t a stalker, mostly. As he came to trust her a bit more, and realized that she wouldn’t be going away, he moved her up a step in his regard to the rank of ‘helper’. From there, she rose to the classification of ‘trusted helper’, and when she expressed her eager interest in arcane studies, she even became his student – apprentice, even. And during one poorly thought-out moment in a tavern a few weeks before, he even classified her as a good kisser. For the past twenty minutes, however, only the word ‘annoying’ came to mind.

"Our charming banter aside…" sighed the Pagoda Master.

"And isn't it ever so charming," Sarah added.

"Indeed. But that aside, I do find it amusing that in most similar situations, those involving me participating in grand duels and bloody spectacles in the name of fame, glory, and money, it is I who rush eagerly forth with blind confidence in my considerable prowess and you who preach prudence and preparation. But this time it is you who pushes me into a competition on a whim, while I am less than eager to rush forward without proper caution."

"This isn't just a random duel," she explained. "It's the Cell. Run by some Max Dirks."

"I don't recall ever hearing of that individual. Is he famous?"

"He thinks he is, at least. Regardless, this is one of the largest martial competitions in the world. Famous warriors from every country will be there."

"But I don't have anything to prove," Eli replied, slipping back into his casual speech patterns. "To be completely honest, I came to Radasanth today to take a day off. I would have rather just watched this clustered debacle of a competition than get involved."

"That could have been an option if you'd brought enough money along."

"I'm not a rich person," the Hierarch reminded her. "You're the one with a good job."

"And you're one of the most powerful sorcerers in the known world, as you enjoy reminding everyone. You could make a fortune as a heat source for some duke's bathhouse. Just sitting there, being surrounded by naked men."

"And I'm sure you wouldn't mind that," Elijah teased. He dodged her punch. “I’m not fond of naked rich men.”

"Then win the Cell. That will give you plenty of money. Besides, I'll be there to watch."

"Ah ha! I get it now. You secretly love violent debauchery, but since only one of us can afford to get in as a spectator, the other needs to do it the hard way."

She waved her hands dramatically. "Oh, your brilliant eyes… how they pierce my very soul."

"I would say that sarcasm doesn't suit you, but it does." Eli grinned. "And fine. It's either spend my day setting other sentient beings on fire, or endure you the whole time."

She smiled triumphantly. "I knew you'd see it my way."

* * * * *

And thus Elijah found himself in the rocky Cell arena, listening to the crowds cheer politely when they called his name. A few people probably knew him, but he didn’t receive the same reception as some of the others, such as the famous Letho Ravenheart. Small wonder that few paid attention to the young man wearing a chef coat.

The battle sparked quickly, but Elijah hung back at first, watching, waiting, and idly twirling his sword. He wondered how many of these opponents he could lay waste to with the slightest effort – being one of the mightiest sorcerers in the known world had its advantages. While he lacked the arcane finesse of skilled wizards, even the master Bards of Raiaera couldn’t match his raw power. But who to blast into a sticky red mist first?

Then he saw Bloodrose, and his eyes centered on the aging Grandmaster. Elijah wasn’t bitter about his defeat at Teric’s hands, but deep down he knew that he could have defeated the old man if not for his own damned complacency and pride. This time, standing before a historic crowd amidst legendary warriors, Belov would have another go. If he hadn’t been on strictly non-speaking terms with Fate, he would have thanked the conniving bitch for the opportunity. Instead, he would thank Sarah. She must have known.

By then, Teric had noticed him. The two Pagoda Hierarchs stared at each other across the arena. Elijah wasted no more time; he wouldn’t allow Bloodrose to approach unhindered. With a swift whispered incantation, Belov gripped the threads of magic, drawing heat and energy inward in an invisible rippling tide. With the slightest of gestures, he unleashed the spell in a blinding lance of heat and flame.

[Ulysses]

Mud squelched up through Ulysses’ worn boots and in between his toes as he shifted from foot to foot in anticipation of the coming battle and sized up his foes. Two competitors had already begun wrestling fiercely in the center of the arena, paying no mind to the others around them. One of these was the dark paladin Lorenor, and the other was a mysterious man in a long trenchcoat. Tall, dark and ugly, Ulysses thought without a bit of humor. He had no interest in getting involved with those two, at least not yet.

The rest seemed more cautious. Two unassuming women and a pallid man with gray eyes entered one side of the arena—he wrote them off immediately as thrillseekers or fools. A more veteran warrior would have known that those with the most unassuming appearances are also often the most dangerous, but a veteran Ulysses was not.

He was far more interested in those he recognized: the warrior Teric Bloodrose and the sorcerer Elijah Belov. Their battle for the title of Grandmaster had been the talk of all Scara Brae for months after its occurrence—they were local and probably foreign legends as well. Elijah sent a fiery spell towards the veteran warrior almost immediately. Ulysses expected that their battle would be hot in more ways than one…

Being trapped in a Cell with such intimidating figures as these, along with men such as Letho Ravenheart and the foul Lorenor put something of a damper on his hopes for victory.

I never knew thou wert a coward, Ulysses. The spirit of the Knight voiced its disapproval within his head.

I’m not, Ulysses thought, gritting his teeth. To prove this, he turned to the hero Letho next to him and nodded solemnly in acknowledgement, trying to pretend as though they were equals.

“Master Letho,” he said, trying to mask the awe in his voice. Then he turned away, blushing.

Oh praise the man Jesus, is he gonna ask for the man’s aughter-graph next? the Gunslinger drawled. Ulysses moaned. Sometimes all the spirits sharing his body did grow a bit…crowded.

He looked from left to right, and his eyes settled on a young man with a bow and dagger who’d been shoved in the door directly to his left. The kid was a few years younger than him (well, probably, appearances could be deceiving) but the terror and inexperience in his eyes was evident. What in all hells was he doing here?

Picking on the weak, very noble, the Knight thought. Ulysses ignored him. It’d probably be a mercy to eliminate the kid before one of the more dangerous warriors got to him. Besides, there really didn’t seem to be anyone else he was comfortable fighting. Eventually he may have to be drawn in to the power plays of the legends around him, but for now he’d best just avoid attention.

He charged the teenager and swung his sword towards the man’s throat. The Knight, disapproving though he was of this tactic, lent his skill to the strike, and the blow was quick and clean. His opponent would counter quickly, or he would find himself unable to counter at all.

A slit throat made it hard to do that.

For Ulysses, this was the real beginning of the Cell.

[Atzar]

The show hadn’t even begun, yet a battle already raged. Thunder boomed as Atzar Kellon squinted skyward amidst the raindrops, watching the angry clouds tear into each other, their wounds bleeding rain on the sodden city far below. Brilliant flashes of lightning lanced to the ground periodically, testament to the conflict’s savagery.

The sky has no choice. That’s its purpose; to be at peace in calm weather, and to tear itself apart when the weather is foul.

The mage glanced back to the great complex in front of him. He’d yet to even enter the arena, and already the buzz of the massive crowd was audible. Lightning flashed, thunder crashed once more.

The sky does it because it has to… What’s my excuse? Butterflies stirred in the tall, lithe figure’s stomach as he realized what he was doing. The strongest warriors, the most powerful mages, the most lethal assassins would surely enter the Cell. Atzar wasn’t delusional; he knew he had no realistic chance of winning such an encounter; yet here he was, throwing himself headfirst into the middle of it.

What’s my excuse? But the unspoken question was mere rumination, the musing of a nervous mind. He knew very well why he was here: he wanted to be here. There was part of him that relished the danger. He knew that one mistake could mean death – hell, he might battle flawlessly and still die – and he wanted it. The mental and physical struggle, the thrill, the quest for victory, for quest for survival – he wanted it all.

So he mounted the stairs, aware though he was of the way his legs trembled at every step.

***

Even inside that adamantine ring, the storm raged. The thunder’s claps could even be heard above the audience’s growing roar, and the rain had reduced the ground beneath his feet to slick stones and slimy mud. Rain dripped from the mage’s long, dark hair, his soaked garb, his nose, yet he no longer even noticed. The battle had commenced; his attention focused entirely on those around him.

Most of the combatants were doing the same thing. They warily looked this way and that, hands on weapons, backs to the wall, suspicion written clearly on their faces. On the other side of the arena, a couple of skirmishes had already begun, though blood hadn’t yet been spilled.

A sensation filled the mage’s mind then. It tingled down to his fingertips, and the hair on his arms stood on end in spite of the rain. He looked to his right to see a curious sight. The lad looked as if he belonged in a kitchen instead of the Cell – he was wearing what could only be a chef’s coat. Atzar wondered if perhaps his senses were in error, but then the young man swiftly removed all doubt. A burning inferno burst forth from the chef, roaring across the ring at a grizzled old warrior.

Wow.

Had the blast been directed at him, Atzar knew it would have consumed him; he had felt the heat even though he stood somewhat apart from its source. Eyes wide, he watched the young man who had cast the spell. There was no malice in his gaze, only a desire to observe. Here was a man who practiced Kellon’s own craft, yet obviously far exceeded the mage’s abilities. To fight this man would be only to affirm his own mortality.

None of the other competitors had marked him as a target, and so Atzar was content to watch the chef-mage’s conflict.

[Kade Underbough]

It wasn’t until he picked himself off the ground, swatting chunks of mud from his shoulder, that he realized he was wet from the rain. A few more quick moments passed before it dawned on him that the rain was no longer hitting him, falling harmlessly onto an invisible, yet sturdy, barrier of some sort. It seemed that magic was a necessary aspect of all sporting arenas, Citadel or otherwise. He held no wonder or awe in the observation. There was no time, as isolated combat quickly erupted.

The first two men, or creatures as they were, showed no desire for the formalities one might inquire of before a competition. Rather, a blow was thrown that sent one body flying in a way Kade couldn’t imagine recovering from. The receiving end of the blow did just that with as much ease and style one could hope for. It was enough to show the conscript that he was outmatched by at least those two. Their power struck a cord of fear in him. It also force fed him an idea.

Bring on the attack!

In all matters considering war, the bandit kid had always been a coward. Many of the combatants seemed to be much more like himself that he would have thought; uninterested in making any sort of first move that could quickly become a mistake. The fear he felt toward those men showing such reckless and violent intent told him that mimicking that aggression could be a key to survival. It dawned on him that possibly the more experienced warriors, those that obviously knew how to survive, were the ones already engaged in the fighting. In the most flawed, illogical bit of logic, they were the ones most likely to move on from the cell under their own power.

Is that the lesson Lionel wants me to learn here?

There was only one way to find out.

Forgoing his dagger, the bandit kid whipped out his choice yew bow, notching not one, but two oak arrows to its tough string. Then he let them fly, not bothering to look at where they were going. Rather, he brought forth two more of his handcrafted projectiles. He didn’t care where they would land. From his few previous battles, he had learned that luck was the most important factor to his survival. Luck that he might take out an enemy. Luck that he might draw the attention of the correct foe. Luck that he could reasonably fight against that foe. Luck that everything would go his way. From his few previous battles, he had learned that luck was on his side. Until that moment.

Just as he was bringing the string back to release a second haphazard volley, the thick plumping sound of beating, burly boots through the mud came at Kade from his right. Or was it simply movement out of the corner of his eye. The crowd's enthusiasm made any other sound a somewhat moot point. Regardless, instincts kicked in. He turned to face the coming foe. Stumbled back to avoid a quick death. Tripped. His notched arrows sprayed from the bow, having been unable to hang on to them. The bow quickly followed suit, as he his inexpert dodge sent him sprawling on his back. The mud almost enveloped him, welcoming him to its odd, lonely world. The bandit kid hoped the arrows had accidentally felled his attacker. If only he could be that lucky.

[Letho]

Nice kid, was Letho’s initial impression of the boy that emerged from the adjacent door. The lad did all but salute him, but it was the manner in which his greeting was done that caught Letho’s interest. Most youngsters that age reacted by expressing either reverent awe or hidden rancor towards the legendary swordsman. This one showed neither. There was respect in his voice, but not of the fawning kind that he saw all too often. No, there was strength in this one, or at least determination to shield his true emotions with a mask of toughness. It reminded the Marshal of himself twenty years back, when he had been young enough to feel invincible and dimwitted enough to actually believe it to be true. This faint resemblance was enough to decide that he liked this kid. Perhaps not enough to leave him unharmed for the duration of the round, but just enough to leave him for last, give him a quick death, and then maybe buy him a cup of ale afterward.

There was little time to dwell on the peculiarity of the greeting, however; already a number of combatants picked their targets and made their opening moves. Since none seemed to have their crosshairs on the Marshal yet, Letho’s eyes had ample time to make a sweep of the field from the shadow of his helmet. His mind disregarded the polite greenhorn and did what it was trained to do, what it was honed to do by years of training and decades of experience; it ascertained and analyzed the threats, then cataloged them accordingly. The small fat woman was filed away in the back row of his mind first, then the sickly looking man with a violin (downright harebrained that one looked with his musical instrument in the midst of this chaos), next the one with long black hair that looked to be stupefied by the fiery razzle-dazzle, and lastly the blonde that looked barely out of her teens. Low priority that file was designated. Letho wasn’t about to tire himself eliminating the pawns when higher value pieces were still very much in play.

Of those left unsorted in the first sweep, four seemed to stand out, but it was the magician that caught Letho’s interest. Plain dressed and plain looking, the young man summoned a spear made of fire and launched it at the elderly fellow. A wizard. Letho hated wizards (or sorcerers, or mages, or whatever the hell the snooty bastards liked to call themselves). The very type of combat they preferred – sit back and fling spell after spell until the world around them was a scorched wasteland – went against everything the swordsman was taught about the honor of battle. He reckoned that these mages felt similar contempt toward the likes of him, possibly found swordsmen brutish and obtuse, but then again these people also liked to wear dresses (and call them robes), so Letho didn’t think much of their personal preference.

Testing the grip on the muddy soil with his right boot, he gave the battlefield another swift glance. His left gauntleted hand clenched into a fist as he did so, and the instant it did a transparent sphere formed around the legendary warrior. The vague outlines of the anti-magic barrier were visible for but a moment, no more than a temporary shimmer that reflected the lightning that cracked the sky overhead, before they faded back to invisibility. He was yet to find someone able to break through his summoned shield with their magicks. Maybe this fellow would prove more of a sport than those before him.

He took a couple of measured steps first, then accelerated gradually until his remarkable bulk was moving at full sprint, the weight of his armor and his armaments hindering his mobility not at all. The roar of the crowd seemed to rise proportionally to his speed, however, an evident sign of his approach for anyone with functional pair of ears a bit of brain between them. Fame didn’t look like such a marvelous thing as he slid on one knee and extended his right arm, thrusting his spear at the chest of the mage.

Trying to skewer Elijah. That’s what you get for picking on the elderly; Chris. If need be, minor bunnying of Letho is allowed.

[Ulysses]

While the true champions battled in the center of the arena, the younger heroes held their own duel at the edge of the battlefield.

Two arrows flew haphazardly at Ulysses as he closed the gap between him and his opponent. One simply went wild and flew into the floor at his feet, but the other struck him right in the chest. It felt like getting punched in the chest—although thanks to his vest the arrow couldn’t pierce the upper layer of his clothing. The arrow snagged on his clothing and hung down, limb.

His forward momentum was too great to be stopped, however. The boy had managed to dodge his sword strike, but hadn’t compensated for the almost frictionless surface the thin layer of mud had created and had gone toppling onto his back—his bow had scattered across the floor. He was now completely prone on the ground, with Ulysses standing over. The swordsman placed his blade at the enemy’s throat, point nudging his Adam’s apple. No sooner had their skirmish began than Ulysses had the upper hand.

Time for the killing blow, the Ronin thought.

Maybe this Cell thing ain’t gonna be as hard as we thought, eh kid? the Gunslinger agreed.

Ulysses ignored them. He ripped the snagged arrow from his shirt and tossed it on the ground. So there were advantages to that damn heavy small-ringed chainmail he wore after all.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Ulysses asked the boy on the ground. The boy had shown no combat aptitude at all. It was some cruel joke that he’d been thrown in here with the likes of Ravenheart and Bloodrose. There was something incredibly pitiful about the child—like a puppy thrown in a cage with lions.

He’s no child—he’s almost thy age, the Knight noted. That was true, but Ulysses had the years of experience of his guardian spirits at his side.

Ulysses readied his sword once more for the single chop that would end this farce, but once again he couldn’t find it in himself to kill the boy. So what if he would just be revived later? Having your head chopped off was something of a harrowing experience. This wasn’t a battle—this was murder.

He wondered if the same thing would happen if he ended up in a battle with one of the more famed contestants…except in that case, he would be the one on the floor, and they would doubtless have no qualms about chopping his head clean off.

He gulped and hesitated just a moment more. As it turned out, that was just a moment too long.

[Arsène]

The cheering and jeering of the crowd ruined anyone’s chance to listen to the brilliance of Arsène’s craft. He finished the final notes of his tune as unassumingly as he had begun. It was clean, crisp, and inspirational (if slightly out of tune, he should have visited the damn music shop before the battle began.)

Arsène rose from the cell’s floor; above the mud he could see all the commotion that had begun since he started his song. Two ghouls were off clawing each other like wild beasts, and mages let flame fly furiously from their fingertips. It was all tripe. These were creatures from children’s stories; human Aesop characters to teach morals and virtue and run fear into the spines of kids.

”How droll,” he whispered as the wind rolled round and round him. The clash of titans proved only a mild distraction, but he had a task at hand. Scanning the fighters, he quickly settled upon an unassuming man who watched the mage-on-swordsman brawl with an eerily fascination, considering the sounds of death and groans of pain were everywhere.

He placed his violin upon his jacket, careful to keep it free of mud; the damn thing might no sound right, but it had history that spun Arsène’s head. Lightning cascaded above in the sky, reflecting off the melancholic’s blade. It was cleaned and polished only a day before, and sent a shiver down Arsène’s spine.

He was a noble; trained from birth to uphold a man-made code through blood and iron. He began a small sprint towards the unassuming man, swords at readied in his hands. Sliding with a sense of grace and finesse, moved forward by his momentum in the mud, he lunged the steel straight towards Atzar’s gut.

Going at Atzar. Sorry the post isn't up to par, but I'm a little lightheaded from the cold and medicine.

Also drinking time.