The Treslizn Chamber

[Ailnea]

Ailnea had moved closer to lorenor's murderer. Suddenly, a fireball caught her in her side and laid her low. Slowly she got up, moaning, determined to continue on, to avenge her friend's death. She moved closer, and right as she got close to her chosen enemy, something strange entered her vision.

The strange woman that had chased her earlier, was glowing. She was close to Ailnea, then, she just exploded. Ailnea's senses filled with fire, then, darkness. This was familiar, the dense black void of nothingness before she was resurrected.

"Interesting, a machine comprised of Nano-molecular machines, from that universe. I thought it was destroyed. She is perhaps, a survivor? Regardless, I think I shall set the watchers in the night on the contestants of this contest, both the survivors, and losers." A male voice was saying.

The voice was familiar, as though she should know it. It gave her a chill of fear, as though its sounding meant only unpleasant experiences to come. Movement, she was moving through the darkness.

Out on the battlefield, Ailnea's dead body finally dropped Lorenor's dagger, giving no sign of the mysteries her spirit was encountering.

Last posts from me.

[Bloodrose]

Dialogue provided by Letho, bunnying approved.

Teric normally considered himself a strong man, but as he locked blades with the Hero of Corone, it became stunningly obvious who between them was mightier. In trying to hold back Letho's two-handed blade with only his saber, the mercenary might as well have been trying to hold back the morning tide. Adamantine and mythril shrieked together as the larger blade slid to the basket-hilt of Teric's sword, even as the Grandmaster's feet dug twin burrows into the soft earth while Ravenheart forced him back. Their faces came within inches of one another as they struggled, and the older man could almost feel the begrudging, yet mutual, respect blossoming between them.

"Out of my way, old man! I have a score to settle with that cowardly scullion yonder," Letho growled through clenched teeth. Almost as if to emphasize his might, the Red Marshal shrugged his arms forward, and the force was enough to stagger his opponent backwards. Their blades came apart with a metallic ring as Teric regained his footing, but Letho didn't press his momentary advantage. It was obvious that he was far more interested in Elijah Belov.

"No." The veteran replied sternly.

Letho moved as if to circle around the older swordsman, but Teric moved with him. Wordlessly, the Hero again went to pass around the obstructing fighter, this time to the other side, but again Teric impeded his path. Frustrated, the younger man gave a derisive snort and fixed the older one with a determined look.

"Are you that desperate to claim my life that you would forfeit your own for a chance do so?" As if by way of explaining further, the Hero pointed over Teric's shoulder, indicating the two magi conjuring and raining fiery death all around them. "Surely you realize that those two will end us both if we allow them to run rampant."

"The sorcerer will not interfere." Teric offered by way of an excuse, but the words rang hollow in even his own ears. Ravenheart, judging by the expression on his face, was equally unconvinced.

Just fight me, you! Teric wanted to shout. He'd been waiting all day for a new challenge, and since Elijah seemed intent on burning the entire arena to the ground, this was likely the warrior's last chance to get Letho one on one. If he let the big man through, there was no guarantee that the pyromancer wouldn't just incinerate him, and Teric would yet again be robbed of his opportunity for a martial challenge. There was a moment's hesitation as the old warrior contemplated the next few seconds of the battle, and Letho cleared his throat as if to prod the old timer along.

"Fine." Teric's shoulders slumped in disappointment. After boiling it down, the veteran had zero confidence in Elijah's ability to keep his nose out of their duel once he ran out of others to explode, and so then Teric had little choice but to yield. "Have your revenge then."

"Once I am done with them, you shall get your duel. You have my word." Letho offered.

This time it was Teric's turn to snort. It was hard to suppress a mental image of Elijah roasting Corone's Hero alive with jets of magical flame, laughing manically as he ruined the mercenary's fun. Try as he might, and he tried hard, the veteran just couldn't seem to replace the image with one of Letho cleaving the smug sorcerer in half and then pissing on his corpse.

"Once you're done then." Teric agreed, turning away from Letho as he readied his arsenal. The Marshal's target was clear, and so then the mercenary was left to scrounge for another target; one upon which to both vent his frustration and with which to occupy his time. In the short period they'd been left unhindered, Elijah and his mysterious ally had brought death down on the heads of several of the arena's remaining competitors, and so the pickings were starting to get mighty slim.

For the third time, likely the last time his injuries would allow, Teric seemed to flit from one spot to another in an instant. His movement carried him in the direction of earlier said mystery man, the black-haired mage that seemed to be controlling Elijah's unbridled magic. Teric didn't understand how that worked, exactly, but the mercenary didn't concern himself with the workings of the arcane. He simply used his speed to make a hasty charge for the man while he was preoccupied, intent upon skewering him.

Teric is looking to stab Atzar in the gut.

[Letho]

That was... unexpected. Witnessing the determination and gall of his weathered foe, Letho believed he would persist in his intentions regardless of the words spoken. There was steel in those blue eyes, unrelenting solidity and sharpness of a man that knew what he wanted and wasn't afraid to take it. It subsided but a little, this razor sharpness of the ages, when the promise of a duel was spoken, but it was still there. It spoke without words, without a sound, that this man would most definitely hold him to his word. There would be a reckoning once the masters of the fiery razzle-dazzle were taken care of, and it was bound to be one that Letho would lose.

Weapons felt heavy in his hands... No, that wasn't right. His very arms felt heavy by now. He had the strength of over a hundred men pulsing through his body, and yet it took every ounce of his will to sustain that surge and put his body in motion once again. It was the wound, he knew. The damn thing was sapping the very life out of him, its effects doubly fast now that he pushed himself to the limit. Despite the inferno of the arena, he felt coldness creeping over him, like a myriad of tiny droplets of icy water tickling his skin. Dizziness would come next, Letho knew, first just a minor distortion in the world before him, then a major one that would bring him down, his human instincts telling him to take it down a notch. He shook his head, then shoved the weakness aside with his mind. He couldn't afford to yield to human weaknesses. After all, wasn't he supposed to be a hero?

On most other occasions, Letho would've taunted the mage with some hogwash about justice and cowardice and honor and all those fancy words that the masses liked to hear. Too tired for that now. Tired of the heat that made him sweat, tired of the crowd and their insatiable lust for blood, tired of the stink of singed flesh and hair that made him want to heave, tired of dealing and evading death. But most of all, he was tired of that content, almost bored smirk on the young wizard's face, that expression of a spoiled child that remained on his face even as he sent people to their fiery graves. He would end this boy. For Ulysses, for the crowd, for the boils on his legs and the jadedness in his muscles, he would end him. Not because he was a hero. But because it felt right.

The old man was already on the move, doing his now-you-see-me-now-you-don't routine that to most looked like a teleportation spell. Letho knew better, saw better. There was nothing magical about it, just a whole lot of speed and momentum. Still, it got him where he needed to be, close enough to stab the lesser of two fiery evils. With a nod, the Marshal made his move towards the greater one.

His arms stretched wide at his sides, his hands holding the two weapons parallel to the ground below, Letho Ravenheart looked like a tattered bird of prey as he darted towards the mage. There was nothing tactical about his approach, nothing smooth and classy like the vanish-and-thrust combo his temporary ally employed. It was all about pure, unbridled power, shoved forwards like a fist of a boxer in a slugfest. He brought his blades upon the chef-mage's barrier in a horizontal double swipe, shattering the translucent barrier upon impact. He figured the sorcerer would try to scuttle away again, put some distance between them, just enough for him to unleash another barrage of his spells. Letho wasn't about to give him a chance. Sacrificing technique for power and speed, he pressed forwards, weapons swung in wide arcs aimed to sever the boy's body at the waist.

“Now... you... DIE!!!” he squeezed in between blows, channeling every bit of wrath and pain and annoyance into his attacks. He would kill the magician or he would lose his life trying to do so.

[Kade Underbough]

The explosion still rung against his eardrums, drowning out the sounds of everything around him. He saw the charred corpses of those that hadn't fared as well as he. In his state of mind, the reality of his situation barely registered. He was little more than a wild animal, shaking in a violent combination of fear and rage. Sweat permeated from his breathing, flaring pores, hot and exhausted from the fiery blast. His naked legs, once pale, now resembled a raw hide, blistered from long exposure to the sun.

Survive

His thought process had dulled; it refocused on what was important. The Civil War, Lionel, his imprisoned brother Ramis, they were all forgotten as he became a purely instinctual creature. He saw another fireball come his way and rolled on his heels to his left, hissing from the pain of moving his burned legs. The flames lightly licked his right ear, but it passed him by. He ran, hoping to avoid the explosion, and turned to see that the magic had turned full circle. Redirecting itself, it headed for the intended target once again. The second time around it looked fully committed, blazing toward him like a heat seeking missile.

He somersaulted for the second time in a span of minutes. That time, as he leaped toward the ground, the fireball followed suit. He landed and quickly rolled, the ball thumping into the caked, nearly dry mud where he had been a fraction of a second before. He was hit by another blast, but that time the ground absorbed much of the likely damage. He ricocheted off the ground as though someone had ripped a rug out from under him, losing balance and control of his athletic endeavor. He landed right-side up, one foot hitting the ground before the other, causing him fall to his knee to avoid a rolled ankle. The rest of his shirt was gone, either torn or burned away. The lesser burns on his back suggested the latter.

He rose back to his feet, the palm of his hand bleeding around the hilt of his dagger as his white knuckled hand clutched the weapon. He looked for another unnatural flame to be thrown his way, but the battle scene had changed. The two swordsmen had parted, each hounding his own personal magi. Both men looked to be on their last good leg and the crimson warrior appeared on the verge of losing that as well. Their alliance of two appeared to be over before it had ever come to a full blossom. Hell, it hadn't even started.

The ravaged, wild kid gritted his teeth. Each man could easily kill the impish child of the cage, yet his survival rested on the death of every single combatant. Even the crimson warrior. Like any small animal, his choices were limited, but clear. Prey on who he deemed weakest.

He pushed off like an injured track star, keeping up a respectable speed despite visible limps in both legs. The blisters covering his calves and thighs ruptured in the first few steps, oozing droplets of pus and blood in his wake. It didn't take long to get anywhere in that cell and he was quickly within range of his chosen victim. Without so much as a grunt, the stealthy teen lunged at the crimson warrior from behind, jabbing his dagger at the man's exposed head, just below his skull.

(( Kade pulls bitch move and attacks his friend. ))

[Atzar]

Body quaking uncontrollably, breaths coming in short, ragged gasps, the wizard felt the reins slip from his grasp. He saw the fire as it ventured further and further from his marks, gradually returning to its own natural, random ferocity. He was spent; he knew it.

The blonde girl crackled with electrical energy after Atzar struck her. Any living creature would have died instantly, but she crept closer, ever closer. Even in his exhaustion he felt the heat of panic rise up within him. No! The mage vainly tried to reassert his control, to strike her down before she reached him, but he had nothing left. No! Stay away! Finally one of the molten missiles found its target of its own free will, and she exploded.

She hadn’t gotten close enough to kill the mage, but nonetheless the edge of the blast ripped at him violently. The concussion rocked him roughly to the ground. The fire seared and blistered his flesh and he screamed aloud, eyes screwed shut in agony.

And then it was over. The fire was gone, leaving his unimaginable pain as the only evidence it had ever existed. He pried his eyes open and saw Ravenheart charging Chef-mage near the center of the ring. He had to help. By sheer force of will, the exhausted mage rose to his hands and knees. He had to find something left inside. Struggling mightily, he rose to one knee. He had to survive. And then he saw it. The figure shimmered into existence above him. The grizzled old warrior stood there, sword poised to strike, and Atzar knew that he gazed into the cold blue eyes of death.

The blade took him in the midsection, passing though his body as if it were no more than water. There was no more pain; rather, he felt as if he were in a dream. The sword in his chest, it wasn’t real; only a nightmare. His lips moved vaguely, but no sound escaped. Weakly he grasped the man’s wrist as if to remove the weapon from his entrails, but the veteran’s grip didn’t waver.

In his peripheral vision he perceived a familiar form. He turned his head, and there he saw the crumpled, mangled remains of the melancholy fighter, whom he had sent to a gruesome demise. More than that, he saw a reminder. He saw the promise that he had made only moments before: I will not be so frail. I will not be weak.

Elijah stopped spewing flames, and the last of the blazing missiles arced high into the air. I will not be weak. His once feeble grip strengthened on his killer’s wrist, but he no longer sought to get away. Instead, Atzar strived to hold the powerful warrior in place. A crackling scream ripped from his throat as he put his might, his very life into one final act. The lethal fireballs changed direction in midflight, crashing down on him with a series of sharp detonations.

But Atzar Kellon didn’t hear them. The savage sounds, the sickening sights, the severe suffering all mercifully faded away.

My actions affect Bloodrose.

I need one more post, but my impact on the battle at hand is over.

[Christoph]

Admittedly, Elijah hadn't expected treachery from Teric or Letho. He had been too preoccupied, standing within a column of flame and weaving his spells, with his own treacherous plots. That was why, when the sudden attack came, Belov kept his calm. But then everything happened too fast.

Teric made the first move, appearing like a specter so very close to the heart of the inferno, and cut down the other mage. Another explosion ravaged the arena, this one amazingly conjured by Eli's cohort. I didn't think he had it in him. He faltered and staggered backwards, drawing up his best defenses against the unexpected blast. Then Letho appeared, and Eli could focus on nothing else.

The Coronian hero barreled through the waning flame like a man possessed, his mighty sword swinging with uncontrolled fury. So much like a wildfire, Belov thought. The sorcerer sprang backward, narrowly avoiding a crushing slash. Letho pressed the offensive with reckless, almost desperate abandon. The chef-sorcerer grinned; now he would battle the living legend face to face. The crowd cried out for more. Many cheered for Letho, but Eli could hear a different chant growing as the two mighty warriors clashed. Chef! Chef! Chef!

And so they fought, Letho fierce, unrestrained might against Belov's desperate speed. Elijah stayed in motion, his movements resembling the unpredictable flicker of candlelight and his speed still magically enhanced to supernatural levels. Even as his foe rained blows upon him, he dodged and weaved. A single misstep would spell very painful disaster.

Tired of giving ground, Elijah snarled and took the offensive. He sprang forward, his blade burning orange. He lashed out with blinding speed, his sword dancing through the air and seeming to strike from several directions at once. Despite the fierceness of his assault, he remained focused, centered -- a forge to Letho's wildfire. Flesh burned every time Eli drew blood, until Ravenheart seemed a walking, fighting mass of charred flesh.

Yet, it felt like beating back the tide itself. Letho weathered the onslaught and advanced with a smoldering finality, unstoppable, constantly forcing Elijah back with his crushing slashes. Then the ground ended and his foot struck the arena wall. Letho struck. Eli blocked. The two legendary swords crashed together and Belov's legs buckled pathetically beneath Letho Ravenheart's mythical strength. He crumbled to the ground. The hero of Corone loomed over him, and for a fleeting moment he felt heartbreakingly small; the chef from some backwater town. A nobody.

Then the spark returned to his eyes. I will not die on my knees! Letho is not my better! He was Elijah Belov, one of the most powerful men in the known world. He lunged forward defiantly, thrusting his sword at Letho's torso with all his might.

Bunnies approved by Letho.

[Bloodrose]

At long last, Teric's blade tasted its first blood of the day. The nameless black-haired magician had no opportunity to react, no time to conjure a spell or even whisper a final prayer. The man's eyes just sort of glossed over as he stared dumbfounded at the razor-sharp instrument of death that seemingly grew from his own body. His lips moved as if speaking, but no words were audible as the man struggled to remain upright.

Cold, sweaty fingers closed around Teric's wrist, and the mercenary stood silently watching as the life drained out of the man impaled on his sword. Some individuals, at this juncture, would have taken this opportunity to whisper a quiet prayer or say something poetic. Still others would have found this moment - that short window between inflicting a mortal wound and when death finally took hold - as an opportune time to degrade, belittle, or otherwise sully the dying individual for being weak. Teric did none of these things, and not because he couldn't think of anything to say, but more because he didn't really care.

You'll be up and walking around in less than an hour. The veteran knew.

The grip on Teric's wrist tightened, and the mercenary's eyes narrowed warily. The magician's life - what little of it remained - seemed to well up inside him as he fixed his killer with a resolute stare. Even before the gurgling, final scream tore from his throat, Teric knew something was amiss.

"Never trust magi to die quietly." The veteran remembered someone telling him once.

The mercenary hastily wrenched his arm free of the dying mages' grasp, and had just enough time to turn away and raise his shield before the fireball exploded. Teric was thrown bodily by the force of the blast, and he hit the ground shoulder-first and bounced like a rag-doll across the earthen floor before coming to rest several meters away. Pain tore through his limbs as they were bent every which way by the uncontrollable nature of his tumbling, and the veteran's lung burned as they sucked in air scorched and rendered oxygen-less by the explosion.

Teric ended up on his stomach, one leg folded awkwardly beneath his hips and with his shield arm up behind his head. It hurt to breathe, and all he could smell was the raw, burnt inside of his own nose, but the mercenary was alive...

Bit of a hasty post - had to get it up while I'm at work. I'll likely put up a conclusion post later tonight.

[Letho]

Bunnying approved by Christoph

Focus, boy. I swear, your emotions shall be the death of you.

Some twenty-odd years ago, Savion's master-at-arms had spoken those words to a young stripling called Letho Ravenheart, and they rang true even today. Especially today. The mage had been a thorn in his side from the beginning of the battle, a rash that just wouldn't go away no matter how he treated it. And up until now, that was pretty much all the Marshal saw in the cocky spell-weaver: a nuisance, a bug that kept on buzzing until you squashed it against the wall. And yet there appeared to be more. Faced with the certain death at the edge of Letho's blades, the youth opted to stand his ground instead of beating a retreat. Furthermore, he actually possessed some skill with his light blade, evading when the heat was too great, countering when Letho recovered from one of his sweeping slashes, always an inch away from the edge that would end his life. It was a trait that the Marshal would've respected on any other day. But not today.

Today he was jaded and annoyed and in so much pain that it felt like every reckless swing was his last. As if that wasn't enough of an irritation, every time the magician's sword licked his skin, it left a burning sensation that spread through Letho's veins like magma, scorching him from the inside out. He felt it creeping through his system, this unnatural fever, and it was worse than the cold perspiration that bathed his skin now, felt wrong somehow. And for briefest of moments he acknowledged the possibility that he might lose this battle, might actually suffer a defeat to a dress-wearing boy with a pocketful of parlor tricks.

As if he smelled this fraction of a second worth of doubt, the mage lunged forward and under another one of Letho's mighty slashes, trusting his sword at the warriors chest. Letho's left moved to intercept, swat it away the way it did countless times before, but his muscle cramped up under the torrents of fiery pain and he was just a little slow. Just a little short. The sword went through him as if he was a training dummy filled with straw, the metal feeling as hot as a poker fresh out of a fire. He tried to take another breath, but the perforation in his lungs cut him short, then sent blood back up instead of used air. His stern gaze went to the pommel of the sword sticking out of his chest, then to the boy. The mob in the stands quieted down with a surprised wooaaaah! Was this the end of a titan, that sound asked.

“Not... good enough... boy!” he managed, blood pouring through his clenched teeth, soaking his beard. His armored right hand dropped the monstrous gunblade in the mud and wrung its fingers around the young man's throat, digging into the taut muscles and slamming the wizard against the adamantine bars. The aura that encompassed his entire body wavered, its pearly vibrancy paling by the second. Not a lot of time left now, not a lot of fuel to burn. He was about to bring his bastard sword in for the kill, then noticed the slightest movement in the brown eyes of the mage he was about to choke to death. Years of experience kicked in once again, and combined with the remnant of his power and the warrior's instinct they were enough to make Letho turn sideways and face the backstabbing move of the archer. The very same archer that blindly tapped his way around the arena while Letho conveniently drew the fire onto himself. Some people.

He brought his sword to parry a little too late again, but was still quick enough to shove the dagger away from his neck and towards his shoulder. It left a deep gash there, but by now it was a small matter. He was a dead man already, just too stubborn to accept it. One hand still wrapped around the mage's throat, he slashed with the other at the treacherous bastard with a downwards cut, aimed to open his from shoulder to hip. But it was more of a defensive move, aimed to buy him enough time to finish his business.

He turned back to the mage at hand, felt one of his hands feebly punching him in the gut, the other trying to twist the sword in the scabbard of Letho's flesh. The Marshal's strength was failing by now, seeping from his system proportionally to the blood that soaked through his clothes. There was enough time for one more attack, enough strength to bring this battle to a close. His lips stretched into a smirk, a crimson, ugly thing that showed too many teeth. And then he brought his head forward, slamming his forehead into the face of the persistent magician with every bit of might he had left. The white light that enveloped his bloody form went out, as did the light in the lad's eyes.

“OLD MAN!” he shouted as he discarded the body of his foe, stumbling as he walked away, one hand gripping for the fence, the other dragging the sword through the mud. He was bleeding from so many holes in his body by now that he had lost count. The mage's sword was still jutting from his ribcage, sending a flare for each step he took. “COME HERE! COME, LET US END THIS!!!” he summoned the veteran mercenary, his voice the only part of him still up to the task, strong and rumbling like a thunder. He noticed the white-haired geezer - sprawled in the mud, but still alive - some distance off, tried to lift his blade up, take a defensive guard, but instead it slipped from his fingers, the blade too heavy, the muscles in too much pain to bear its weight. His knees buckled next, as if they were made of the same mush that sucked at his boots, and his vision grew dim and hazy even as they did. He thrust his will against this weakness again, but it was like trying to push a sandstorm; it simply swept over him and claimed every bit of his strength.

Letho Ravenheart's bloody campaign ended with the legendary hero on his knees, leaning on the cage bars, taking shallow breaths that gradually grew slower as blood poured out of him and saturated the already damp earth. His hands somehow found their way to the grip of the bastard sword, holding the mucky blade against his chest. And still his voice insisted on keeping the promise, slowly fading towards a whisper.

“Come on.... Old... Man...”

Coughing gobs of blood now, feeling his consciousness slipping.

“There is still... some fight...”

Blurry world darkening, senses shutting down, heart beating its last groggy beats.

“...left... in... me...”

But there wasn't. His mind, finally forced to face the defeat, broke strings with reality and Letho exhaled his last breath. And after several moments of grave silence, his departure was met with applause.

Conclusion post, in case you didn't notice the whole bleeding out and dying part. :P

[Kade Underbough]

There was a fraction of a second where the crimson warrior began to turn, to meet the young combatant’s engagement. Ample enough time to change one’s course in the heat of battle. The panicked kid rejected that chance, knowing if he didn’t take the man out at that moment, there wouldn’t be another opportunity. He witnessed his steel cut deeply into the man’s shoulder, but anything non-lethal was a failed attempt at that point. The freight train of a warrior gave Kade a parting present as the conscript landed and foolishly turned to see the results of his strike.

A jagged feeling of ice tracked its way down his body, opening him up in gruesome detail. Pain. He stood there for a moment, dumfounded, as a rush of air and blood spurted from his body, adding more crimson to the leg of Kade’s assailant. Incredible Pain. With the rush of air departed, he felt the immense pressure of a collapsed lung and staggered back. His abdomen released its contents; food, drink, and intestines all slipped from the wound like butter. Insurmountable Pain. He would have vomited had his body allowed him, but was left with retching as he stumbled to the ground.

He laid there, halfheartedly and to no avail trying to hold his skin in place, but soon quit. His arms fell as he ground his teeth, writhing on the ground like any common animal. It was a prolonged death, but no time was spent in pained reflection. Only pain. No mark of discipline or dignity would linger on the tale of his death in the Cell that day. He hadn’t accomplished anything. Vague memories would recall him as the one that lucked his way to a death side by side amongst the titans. Shadowed by those men, no one would remember his name. He had gained nothing from the tournament.

Only a scarred memory.

Conclusion Post.

[Christoph]

Pain. Yes, he should have been feeling pain, instead of the endless warm numbness that enveloped his shattered body like a lover's embrace. He'd been bested, he knew, but as a nameless philosopher once said, 'the mighty seldom fall alone.' Even as his vision darkened, he glimpsed his foe, the legend, give his last breath. I did that, he thought. I have slain a legend.

Eli turned his dying gaze to Teric Bloodrose, perhaps the last man standing. He grinned a bloody grin, a smile that said what his mangled throat could not: "Looks like I stole your thunder again, old man." And then his flame went out. Even amidst the smoldering arena, with the fresh sun shining on his face, he felt cold… so very cold.

* * * * *

He awoke feeling slightly less cold. Lying on a cold slab brought back many memories of the Citadel and Pagoda, some less pleasant than others. Groaning, he hauled himself up, fighting down sharp pain in his chest, throat, and face. What sort of half-ass healing job did they do? Then he remembered; they didn't. They patched him up enough so he could stand and breathe, but little else. Splendid.

He shambled through the sterile white cells beneath the arena like the walking dead. He glanced about, seeing some fighters he recognized and some unfamiliar faces. Then he spotted the mage, still covered in burns but otherwise alive. Belov smiled, feeling gratitude and respect, as well as a certain camaraderie toward the other arcane practitioner. While his own powers vastly outclassed this other man, he knew talent when he saw it. He gave the other arcanist a friendly wave, beckoning him over.

I'll be wanting one last post after Atzar.