The Treslizn Chamber

[Christoph]

Strangers rarely knew what to expect from Elijah Belov. At first glance, they saw a chef who could have just stumbled out of a noble's kitchen. That was until he set them on fire with a casual gesture. Then the image changed to an oddly-dressed sorcerer. People rarely even noticed his sword, and if they did they assumed he kept it just for show. He often actively encouraged that perception, because then his foes engage him under false expectations. Sorcerers aren't supposed to be good fighters, but Elijah had fought with a blade for a very long time. It formed the perfect counterpoint to his magic: plenty of finesse, but not much power.

Therefore, Eli did not recoil before Letho Ravenheart’s charge. His first and strongest emotion was not fear, but annoyance. An interruption, taking attention away from his primary target.

The sorcerer continued his incantations until the very last moment. He drew the threads of power inward, infusing his flesh with magic, changing and expanding his physical capacities well beyond mortal limits. His muscles tightened and his movements grew swifter. The world seemed to slow around him.

Seconds later, Letho was upon him. Elijah spread his feet and drew his sword, sweeping it in a blinding arc to parry Ravenheart’s mighty thrust. The legend followed with another jab. Belov knocked it aside. While his motions seemed casual, he actually staggered beneath the attack’s crushing force.

He grit his teeth and jumped out of reach. He felt the subtle hum of Letho’s aura. He knew it well – it was some form of counter-magic. Were he not about to get skewered, he would have sighed and shaken his head. Leave it to those ignorant of magic to hide behind a defense made by magicians. The protective field was potent, but so was he.

With a feral snarl, he unleashed a blast of fiery wrath. Raw power erupted from his fingertips in a wave of flame and shattered earth. He lacked fine control of his pyromancy, but he possessed truly legendary raw power. With a series of sharp gestures, he intensified his sorcerous assault into a ceaseless explosion, focused and furious. He could feel the anti-magic field’s resistance, but that only drove him to push harder than he ever had in his life.

[Ailnea]

Ailnea hovered at the edge away from the fighting, her thoughts wavering from fear of death and the more powerful competitors, to a desire to at least not humiliate her order. That was the only reason she hadn't simply fled when she had the chance. But the other competitors, they seemed so powerful, and she was not very much evolved yet.

Her evolutions, the secret to Aibrone power, becoming more than what you were. She was alittle faster than normal, but that was the only advantage given to her. Yet, looking at some of the other competitors, that didn't seem to help her much.

Ailnea watched legends battle in the center, and other not so legendary contenders battle on the sides. So far, no one had taken any interest in her, she was safe. With a chill of fear, she heard footsteps squelching in the mud, coming towards her, picking up speed with every step.

“Forget the order's honor, if they had any, they wouldn't have selected such a weak member to represent the whole order!” Ailnea thought.

She took off running with all her speed, weaving through the two main areas of battle, hoping a blow that missed someone else would hit her pursuer. She spared a glance back to see if she was still pursued, she was, and her opponent was a plain freckled woman, who had just ripped her left arm out of her socket by all appearences!

“What in blazes are you?” Ailnea yelled breathlessly as she turned back to concentrate on fleeing.

[Bloodrose]

The gods must have been listening intently to Teric's prayer as he entered the arena, for the mercenary was almost immediately confronted by an old opponent. Elijah Belov, Master of the Dajas Pagoda and former challenger to Teric's reign there, locked eyes with the old mercenary and both were struck by a silent, mutual understanding. Despite a judge's decision in Teric's favor, their last battle - in the eyes of the combatants - had ended in something too closely resembling a draw for their liking. It was the sort of situation that could only be settled by a rematch, and the young sorcerer didn't waste any time in initiating one.

So little time was wasted, in fact, that Teric didn't even have a chance to size up many of the other competitors.

"Fucking magi." Teric groaned under his breath as Elijah very deftly, and quite unceremoniously, shot a fiery bolt of raw magic in his direction. On the outer edges of his senses, the veteran could almost hear the collective shifting of asses to the edges of seats. He could almost feel the audience willing the object on, urging it to fly faster as they waited with abated breath to see if this bright, shining salvo would result in the day's first death. No matter how fast they willed it to travel, however, it wasn't fast enough to catch Teric - especially at range.

Of course, he probably already knows that. He just wants to get my undivided attention.

The mercenary made it seem almost effortless as he sidestepped the projectile well before it whizzed harmlessly by on its predetermined course. The raw power of Elijah's pyromancy exploded against the adamantine wall behind him, and Teric didn't even so much as turn to survey the damage. Instead the veteran was already striding purposefully across the arena, his gait sure-footed and even despite the rough, muddy terrain. Weapon grasped firmly in hand, shield at the ready, Teric was just outside comfortable talking distance of the sorcerer when the battlefield-esque nature of the Cell interrupted the monogamy of their duel.

And we hadn't even gotten started yet. The veteran lamented.

Letho Ravenheart, resplendent in his red Cillu plate mail, arrived like a charging bull on Elijah's flank. The tip of the Marshal's spear slammed forward, intent upon skewering the mage-chef's heart, and Teric couldn't decide if he should have been happy or disappointed when it missed. The Pagoda Master's sword turned away the dangerous end of Letho's spear with practiced ease, and the young sorcerer countered almost immediately with an impressive explosion of raw elemental power.

Sorcerer and Hero alike disappeared from view as Teric's line of sight was obstructed by the bright fiery bits and displaced earthen bits of Elijah's impressive show of force. It occurred to the veteran that most people - at this particular junction - would stop and wait to see who emerged still standing on the other side. At the same time, however, it also occurred to Teric that this wasn't shaping into a brawl between most people. Somewhere in that haze of fire and smoke would be a sorcerer obviously skilled enough not to combust himself, and a legendary hero who's reputation alone was unlikely to be laid low by a simple explosion.

Time to get involved!

Those sitting in the lower seats of the arena grandstands would later swear they saw a smile lurking beneath the mercenary's chin as he unleashed an X-shape blast into the dissipating aftermath of Elijah's explosion.

Teric is making good use of his "Cross-Slash" technique, hoping to catch both Elijah and Letho while they are in close proximity to one another.

[Esmerelda]

Esmerelda had surveyed the crowd enough. Some appeared to weild magic, some didn't. There wasn't anything special she couldn't contend with, therefore she didn't need any special strategy. Time to begin, starting with a blond woman who clearly didn't belong on the battlefield.

Esmerelda started towards her, intending to simply skewer the woman on her spikes and give her the mercy of a quick death. Her steps were squelching in the mud, as her Nanites that composed her feet worked quickly to free themselves of mud with each step.

Blast, the woman had noticed her coming, and like a coward chose to flee instead of facing a quick death. Esmerelda gave pursuit, this woman would be her first victim, and she would not allow anyone else to have her.

While running through the crowds of competitors, and in full view of many of her future opponents, Esmerelda had her defensive spikes pop out all over her body. This brought a murmur of curiosity from many onlookers in the stands. Still not finished, she removed her left arm from its socket, though by all appearences she had simply ripped it out of place. This was not true of course, she had taken the .03 seconds necessary to disengage the locks.

Now it seemed the crowd of specators wanted to know what she was, as did the blond woman she chased. Should she tell them? Why not, what could they do about it? Nothing, in fact, it might inspire a more intense competition.

“I am a machine, created by Western Military Labs in The Astorian Union for the purposes of advanced interstellar warfare. I am superior by my very nature to you, and all other beings within this Sphere. You shall die, and in the end, I shall survive, proving my superiority to outdated notions that organics have some sort advantage over machines. Now stop fleeing like a coward.” Esmerelda returned.

She was glad she didn't need air to speak like organics did, her voice box was a speaker. This woman didn't seem to be showing any sign of stopping, so Esmerelda returned her arm to its place instead of turning it into a mace. Next, she plucked a strand of hair from her head and turned it into an arrow, and fired it from the crossbow in her arm.

[Atzar]

It was as if the blast of flame had been the catalyst for the entire battle. Before the young man launched it, there had been a great deal of caution and suspicion, but not much action. But then the fiery beacon had set the arena aglow with its incandescent light, and it all went to hell.

The sounds of battle were all around him now, drowning out the crowd outside the circle. The metallic clang of steel on steel rang through the ring. One fighter had bitten off more than she could chew; she fled about the arena, screaming and squelching across the mucky ground. The sorcerer, the one Atzar had dubbed ‘Chef-mage’, found himself beset by a pair of imposing warriors, and he answered the barrage with a massive burst of heat and flame that made the first strike seem but a candle.

But Kellon’s fascination was cut short as danger was loathe to leave him unchallenged. The mage didn’t even see the man who attacked him; he only saw the silvery sword held adeptly in his attacker’s grasp. Jumping immediately to action, he sprang away, a move that would have been infinitely more graceful if not for the mud that sucked at his feet. Nevertheless, the blade bit only air, and Atzar quickly regained his balance.

The muck that had so nearly betrayed him also offered him an idea. The mage’s blue eyes narrowed as he looked to the ground beneath his assailant. A single thought, a single push with his conscience, and the mud swelled up over the man’s feet, halfway up his shins. The slop’s suction would make movement difficult indeed.

Atzar felt a wave of heat to his side, reminding him of Chef-mage’s combustive presence. Glancing quickly between the entrapped man and the enflamed wizard, Kellon made a quick decision. His attacker wasn’t going anywhere until he freed himself. Meanwhile, his fellow mage threw everything he had into the blaze, trying to bust through the warrior’s shield. He did feel a certain professional kinship with the man, but more than anything he saw an opportunity to gain a valuable ally.

Taking a few quick precautionary steps away from the mud-bound man, Atzar began feeding his own magic into the blaze, strengthening it, making it hotter. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he watched his assailant. He wouldn’t stay stuck forever, and the mage had to be ready to move when he inevitably came after him again.

My actions affect Arsene, Christoph, and Letho. The bunnying of Arsene has been approved.

[Max Dirks]

It was only moments into the battle, but Dirks was already bored. Unlike the crowd, which cheered for every attack, Dirks was only interested in seeing competitors fall. Of the two chambers, the Treslizn was the least intense even though it held some of the biggest names on Althanas: Bloodrose, Arsène, Letho, and Lorenor. Of the four, Dirks only knew the vampire personally, or at least he used to. It was thanks to him that Dirks carried the prevalida katanas on his back. But this mutant wasn’t his friend; it was an abomination of everything Dirks had admired in the vampire. Lorenor had been twisted by the N’jal, a bogus dark arts religion and it was only proper for the vampire to be his first example.

In a swift motion, Dirks reached into his coat and withdrew his ‘patented’ Beretta 950. Though it hadn’t been fired in the better part of a year, it felt warm in his hands. Without remorse, he took aim and pulled the trigger, sending an iron bullet flying at the mutant’s head. The moment he fired it, Phagan raised his hand and a small gap the size of a basketball opened in both force fields along the trajectory of the bullet. Once the bullet passed through the gaps were immediately closed. A smirk appeared on Dirks’ face in anticipation of the kill, but the smirk quickly turned into a frown. Instead of striking his intended target, the bullet went wide left and struck a competitor who was just standing there, cowering in fear.

“Hmm, I must be rusty.” Dirks said, turning to Phagan. “Who was he?”

“Rancore Rasperian,” the magician hissed in response.

Dirks shrugged. “Never heard of him,” he said, turning back to the chamber. Dirks lifted his gun once more and pulled the trigger. The bullet left the gun and Phagan opened the field once more. This bullet struck closer to home. As Lorenor was engaged in combat, Dirks wasn’t immediately aware of what happened. “Did I get him?” In the next moment, Lorenor grabbed the man in the hat’s fist and slammed him to the ground. The man in the hat convulsed momentarily but then stopped. A pool of blood appeared under him and Dirks realized that it was his bullet, not vampire’s slam that killed him.

“Damn it, who was that?” Dirk’s asked Phagan once more.

“A man named Dissinger.” Phagan responded.

“I’ve never heard of him either. No loss in any event.” Dirks turned to Lorenor once more and was about to pull the trigger when he saw two women about ready to duke it out. Particularly intrigued by the confrontation, Dirks lowered his gun and walked to the edge of the platform with a crooked grin on his face. One of the women was beautiful: she had blond hair and a stellar body. The other woman, well, the other woman was a troll. “What the hell is that?” Dirks asked. He looked down and saw the short, fat form of Esmerelda.

“Esmerelda,” said the magician. He already knew who Dirks was referring to.

“How appropriate,” Dirks said. “And the other?”

“Ailnea…”

“Ailena…” Dirks repeated. He stared at her for a moment and imagined what it would be like if she won the tournament. Ailena would come up the podium and walk to him. She would stick her neck forward and bend in for a kiss. Dirks closed his eyes momentarily, but when he opened him he could see only the troll. Disgusted, Dirks shook his head and refocused on the chamber. “I’m going to help her.” Dirks said.

With a quick motion, the criminal reached to his back and pulled one of his katana’s from its sheath. He grasped it with one hand, lifted it over his head and sent it plunging down into the abyss. The katana spiraled through the air towards Esmerelda. Moment’s before the katana struck, Esmerelda fired an arrow which struck the sword. It did no damage, but knocked it off its trajectory, causing the katana to land right in the middle of the two women. “God damn it,” Dirks said.

(Riftslayer and Dissinger are disqualified. Lorenor has 6 hours to post or he will be DQed (this is happening because he presumably was waiting on Dissinger’s response). Esmerelda, according to my clock you were three minutes late in your post. I assume you were writing it as time passed so you’ll get by with just a warning).

[Kade Underbough]

Rubbing a bit of the muddy grime from his eyes, the foolhardy competitor quickly wished he hadn't. He could have just lain there, allowing his attacker to end their farce skirmish in short time. Death would take him without him having to see it. He wouldn’t have to endure that fear. Instead, he ridded the dirt just in time to see the young warrior’s sword press lightly against his throat. The fear hit and he sucked in a gasp of air as a pathetic attempt to avoid his slit throat for just one more second. Beads of liquid streamed over his forehead, down his cheeks, and it was impossible to tell if it was the leftover rain or his own sweat that sent the remainder of the mud streaming away. Kade wasn’t ready to die. The pale swordsman seemed ready to grant him that wish.

“Why am I here?” the bandit kid mouthed, too afraid to speak with any sort of vigor in case it were enough to cut himself against the lethal blade.

It was a good question, considering his obvious ineptitude in combat. The answer however, was simply too long to give. It was a tale of burglary, failure, loss, betrayal, and then more failure. It was the story of a young lad too foolish to realize his brother couldn’t be freed and the folly that soon resulted in his own imprisonment. Then, as luck would have it, he had been sent to a captain hell-bent on turning the frail thief into a legitimate sword of the Empire of Corone. With the blade still pointing to his doom, all those thoughts were a mere flicker of flame matched against a sun. To answer seemed pointless.

Then the warrior seemed to lose focus for a moment. Kade’s hand rolled onto the hilt of his dagger with a mind of its own and with a skillful slight of hand even his father would have been proud to witness. The pale man above him seemed to grow younger, less experienced from whatever inner struggle that was delaying the final blow. It was growing clearer that this young man wasn’t as capable an executioner as Kade had originally thought.

Luck over prowess. He wished there was time to smile.

With all the speed he could muster, the conscript’s wielded dagger exploded toward the sword with all signs pointing toward glancing the blade off track by just enough that the prone combatant could roll the opposite way and escape. For good measure, he allowed one leg to fly toward the swordsman’s thighs, hoping to knock the man off balance. It was a flurry of movement, with so many opportunities for things to go wrong. Or, if Lady L. could look out for the bandit kid yet again, he might just get back on his feet. Then there was only one more idea brewing in that numskull head of his.

Run. Fast.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

Pat I am going to go ahead and post without you dude. I don't want to get Dq'ed.

Something happened. For a moment, Lorenor had tasted the flesh of the man who he'd chosen to be the first victim of the night. Then, there was a loud shot like a thunderbolt, and the mutant had to move quickly to evade the incoming attack he felt against his sensory array. Lorenor frowned when he saw that his opponent lay dead against the ground. Damn that Max Dirks. Lorenor thought to himself as he readied himself for imminent combat. The mutant shifted his body weight and carefully saw the various events passing around The Cell.

Seeing these events occurring, the mutant observed the combatants, keeping dagger in hand. Suddenly, his eyes stumbled upon a dreadfully familiar individual. When his mind pieced together who she was, the mutant's face widened with terror. Her! What the fuck is she doing here!? Lorenor thought to himself as he spotted the form of the Eldricht Horror named Ailnea. Casting all other objectives aside, the mutant forgot about the man-in-white for a moment and immediately ran towards the maiden-nun.

Protect the child. One day she will conspire to carry your children. He heard N'Jal whisper in the back of his mind. Nodding to nobody in particular, Lorenor ran towards the nun with determination in his eyes. He recalled a brief encounter with the Chef-Magi named Elijah and decided to ignore his current battle for now.

Lorenor ran at best speed over to Ailnea's position. Reaching out to grab her person, the mutant called out to her. "Ailnea, it is I, Lorenor." He said with a grim sounding tone of voice. "How in the name of all things in Haidia did you end up in this nightmare? Have the Elders gone mad to allow you in The Cell?! It doesn't matter. You're here now, and I'm here. I will protect you for as long as my powers of darkness hold out and keep me alive." Lorenor said once again reclaiming his role as Ailnea's legendary protector. With the other members of The engaging Elijah, Bloodrose and Letho, the mutant found himself with a brief moment to devise a tactic.

Spotting the battle between the two kids, Kade and Ulysses, Lorenor's face twisted in a particularly eerie expression. With his dreadlocks flapping in the wind, Lorenor returned his gaze to Ailnea. He was still attempting to grab her by the shoulder so that she might stop whatever it was that she was doing. Also noticing a hot blond-chick, the mutant assessed the thread level from her. It all went to shit quickly and the cluster-fuck began. Pissed off that Max Dirks stole a kill from him, the mutant shot a glance at the man-in-white. The stare was brief, however, and he returned his gaze to Ailnea who seemed lost and confused.

"Ailnea. Listen to me very carefully. Follow my lead and stay close by to me. Together we can survive this thing. Just pace yourself carefully."

He whispered words of reassurance in a chaotic and hectic environment. The mutant could taste fear emanating from the nun. Lorenor was afraid, hell, he recognized the likeness of legendary Letho from the stories he'd heard carving his path through the underworld of Radasanth, Narhenad, and Knife's Edge. Planning on his next move, the mutant decided that his place was protecting Ailnea. After all that was said and done, he could pick off the remaining survivors from the cluster-battle with Elijah. Remember his previous encounter with the Chef-Magi, Lorenor dreaded the man's intense pyromancy skills.

There were many other entrants in The Cell now, but for the time being, Lorenor was in the clear. I have a mission now. Lorenor thought to himself. The mutant suddenly decided to hand Ailnea his prevalida dagger. He wore a determined expression on his face. "Take this Ailnea, it will save your life. Give it back to me after The Cell is over." Once the task was completed, he drew his prevalida longsword. His eyes became focused as he stood by his chosen mark, and then stared at everyplace and no place at the same time. Grim expression on his face, Lorenor was ready for the next sacrifice to begin. Hopefully that bastard, Max Dirks, does not rob me of another kill.

Lorenor has reached Ailnea. He has lent her a prevalida dagger won during the FQ and drew his prevalida longsword. He is standing alongside Ailnea and waiting for the next event to occur.

[Ulysses]

The boy sprawled on the ground beneath chucked a dagger inexpertly at Ulysses’ own blade—enough to intercept his sword and distract him for just long enough. The kid wriggled free and scampered away toward another part of the Cell. Ulysses didn’t care much. Where did the kid have to run? This battlefield was tiny. He could be dealt with later.

A fat woman shouting some incomprehensible nonsense in an oddly mechanical voice ran past Ulysses. He considered going after her, but what would the point be, really? She was weird, but nobody seemed to be paying her any attention, so she couldn’t be much of a threat.

Two gunshots rang out, and Ulysses immediately looked upwards. The man known as Dirks wielded twin guns, and with them he eliminated two members of the competition. It was hard to tell if the shots had their desired effect, but both looked clean. Trying to spice things up, Ulysses supposed.

That Dirks fellow sh-ure is a good shot, the Gunslinger said in admiration. I’d like to get a hand on one of those guns!

Not likely, Ulysses thought, but some part of him agreed.

Meanwhile, the conflict in the center of the arena escalated. Letho Ravenheart and the chef-magi known as Elijah Belov were locked in close combat—the chef poured out all his fiery sorcery, but Letho seemed able to resist it…for the most part. Sweat beaded on the Red Marshal’s brow, and Ulysses wondered how long it would be before the scales were tipped. The veteran warrior Bloodrose seemed intent on somehow getting involved in the conflict as well.

A second mage poured his power into the conflict, helping the chef, and Ulysses gritted his teeth. Letho Ravenheart, slayer of a thousand monsters, savior of much of Althanas, hero of the ages, overwhelmed by two parlor magicians as these? No, it couldn’t happen! It couldn’t be allowed to happen. He had heard and told stories of the noble Letho for years, he had modeled his own bravery after the man, and he would not allow his hero to go down in the blazes. If Letho’s famous red armor could be shattered, so could much of Ulysses’ (naïve) worldview, in which the good guys always won, and went home at the end of the day, and then lived happily ever after, gods damn it. The good guys did not get burned to a crisp in the first ten minutes of the fight.

The spirits within him agreed in the nobility of this goal. Devotion to a heroic cause beyond the half-hearted “training to increase his abilities” gave him strength. Ulysses’ normally golden eyes flashed from gold to blue to green to blue again as he allowed the Knight and Ronin to partially possess him and guide his sword arm. His stance became more expert, his grip on the blade firmer and more confident.

“Don’t give in, sir Ravenheart!” he shouted to Letho, hoping that the hero would hear his words of encouragement over the fiery roar of magic.

He sprinted for the second mage who had entered the fray—not Elijah, but his helper or minion or servant—and slashed at the wizard’s arms, hoping to at least distract him for long enough to stop some of the poured onslaught of magic.

[Letho]

Not bad for a bloody wizard, Letho thought as he saw his savage jabs met by the mage's blade and parried deftly. It was rare to find one of these dress-wearing conjurers (though this one in specific didn't actually wear a robe, Letho figured he probably had one stashed in his closet and thus classified him as such) with sword skills, let alone decent sword skills. But surprisingly this didn't irk the Marshal; if anything, it stretched the grin inside his helmet just a tad more. If this lad could attack as well as defend, he might even break a sweat during this clash.

But then he bounced away and fired another salvo of fire, and Letho was disappointed again.

“Again with the fire?” he murmured inside his helmet, his voice probably reaching none save his own ears as the vibrant fiery surge exploded against his summoned barrier. The sphere around the swordsman flashed and became almost corporeal, looking like a veil made of the thinnest while silk. It held, as Letho knew it would, as it always did against these one-trick magicians that eventually always returned to their tried-and-true ways. There was some punch behind it, certainly, enough for him to feel the sheer power of it pushing against every fiber of his being like water pressure, enough even to feel the heat of the raging inferno bursting through little by little, but it held. But then, just when he felt confident enough to charge forwards once again, a whole lot of things happened almost at the same time.

With thick smoke spreading around his magic-diffusing sphere, there was no way he could predict the movements of other combatants. So it wasn't surprising that he noticed the next attack when it was almost too late. The gray smoke shroud was suddenly torn in what resembled a cross at his flank, passing through his barrier without as much as a pause. Letho had just enough time to drop to one knee and cover his side as best he could before he felt the impact of the invisible blade crash against his pauldron and breastplate, scattering a myriad of tiny shards of Cillu glass. Not enough of them, though. The toughened glass of Fallien was as hard as mythril and the unseen blade broke through but a layer of it.

Hurts like a son of a bitch, tho- was a thought that tried to pass through his head as he tried to regain his footing when another stream of magical fire made contact with his protective shield, this time from a different direction. And this time the damn thing did waver. He felt like a diver that kept sinking deeper and deeper, only instead of the coldness of the deep blue sea, he could feel the heat, as if he was standing in an oven and somebody kept adding logs on the fire. As if he was diving towards hell itself.

Somewhere distant, almost as if coming across some great distance, he could hear the crowd quiet down as their hero disappeared from view in a maelstrom of fire and smoke. And also, something else. A voice that was almost familiar. Had he heard it somewhere before? When he snapped his head sideways, he realized that he had. It was the kid, the nice kid from the very beginning of the battle, the ballsy one that all but saluted him and then darted away. Now he charged in the direction of what looked like the second fire salvo. Despite sweat dripping from the edge of his graying eyebrows – he cursed his helmet for preventing him to wipe it away – Letho allowed himself a smile. It seemed that not everyone was out to take down the Corone hero. He decided to help the lad out.

His knee still in the mud below (and it seemed to him that it was digging into the mushy surface deeper and deeper with each second), his free hand reached for the menagerie of weapons strapped at his back and fished out the hilt of the adamantine bastard sword with perfect precision. “Hey, kid! Use this!” he belowed, tossing the sword at his direction. The youngster had seemed eager enough to help; might as well have the right tool for the job. The sword landed in the brown mush at the boys feet with an audible plop lost in all the clamor.

As for his own predicament, it was pretty clear that it wouldn't do to just sit there and tire the magicians out. Even if he could actually do that – he reckoned he could, albeit not without extreme difficulty and possibly extreme burns all over his body – there was still a question of the one behind the smoke screen. The one that bruised his ribs with his invisible slash. No, Letho had to make his move. And his move woke the crowd anew.

He took a couple of swift steps forward and into the fiery onslaught of the stronger of two mages, shutting down the barrier even as he did so. And even as the sphere flashed out of existence and the flame tongues came surging at him, he slapped them away with his dragonscale gauntlet in one smooth swipe. The enchanted piece of armor bounced the stream away from the Hero of Corone and towards what could've been the point of origin of the invisible cross moments before. Chances were that the ancient-looking swordsman had moved away from that spot by now, but even if the fire struck close, it would serve to keep the man on his toes. He finished with a leap, his mighty muscles propelling his hulking armored figure above the flames just enough for those in the stands to see him bringing the spear down on the wizard with both his hands. His left hand burned from the deflected shot, burned as if he stuck it into fire, but that only made him swing his spear harder.

Threw my adamantine sword to Ulysses (have fun with that, kid ), took down the field, shoved Elijah's flames away with my enchanted gauntlet and in general direction of Teric and once again tried to skewer Elijah. This time, it's DEATH FROM ABOVE!!! Bloodrose, I played it so your attack went through the barrier because the way you described it in your profile, it's not magical in origin, just air pushed forwards really fast by the edge of the blade, and as such would not be susceptible to the effects of the sphere.