The Armonia Chamber

[Silence Sei]

“I think that I should be immediately regretting this decision,” Sei spoke into the head of his advisor, Andrew Octane, “What if Breaker destroys the tower in the thrill of the fight?”

Then we will rebuild, and maybe even post a ‘Never Forget’ plaque in the new, better model.

“Not funny,” Sei pointed out, overlooking the arena that had been decided for the final chamber of the Cell, the Armonia Chamber. “I am pitting four of my strongest generals, three of which were too busy fighting one another to focus on the task at hand in the first round, mind you. Breaker is a destructive force of nature; it’s going to take weeks to rebuild the mess hall after round two. Worst still, we’re putting Draug, a man who is quickly tearing through the ranks as public enemy number one. And that poor girl…”

The one who reminds you of Kyla?

“That’s the one. Emma rounded up some thieves in the last round, and they may or may not be connected to her." Though it had only been an hour since the last round of the Cell, Kyla Orlouge, Sei’s favorite for the tournament as well as his daughter, had sustained too much damage. Something seemed off about her now, but the mute could not quite put his finger on it.

Something about this ‘Roht Mirage’ girl (whom the mute had come to learned was actually called Astarelle) was important enough for Kyla to defend with her life. Sei did not know what it was yet, but he was determined to find out, by pitting her in with some of the toughest Althanas had to offer.

He flew the safe distance of twelve feet above the Mystic dome (Which in itself was only ten feet high this time). The square of the tower was twenty-five by twenty-five feet, with no real cover for anyone to hide behind. The gimmick, this time, was that the dome extended past the towers length and width, and anyone who would fall from the granite stone monolith would more likely than not make a satisfying squishing sound upon contact with the ground.

The crowd was now surrounding the tower, cut off from the other warriors by the ten feet of ground and air that the dome covered. Mages of all varieties had gathered to show images of the fights events. Any second now, the fighters would be ascending the stairs of the tower, coming up from the cellar-like double wood doors and making themselves known. The finalists of the Cell. The Survivors.

“This is it, you six,” Sei proclaimed, his wings keeping him form from falling to his death below, “The battle of the year os about to take place. This is The Cell Finals! Now take us for a little ride!”

((Thread opens tonight at 12:01 AM CST. Early posting will be punished))

[Arden]

There was a place for every man in the world. There was a sanctuary, a palace, a hovel. Though it might take decades to find it, it undeniably exists. After centuries, Arden Janelle had stumbled across his retreat quite by accident. Though reluctant to fight, and hamstrung by the oni that corrupted his heart, the Hound stood central atop the tower. War was his calling. Defending the weak was his purpose.

“I have served my purpose,” he said. His condescending tone mocked the ‘great’ Sei Orlouge’s command.

He had returned to the Ixian Knights after battles with monsters, gods, and terrors dark. He had longed to keep some of that meaning, that purpose, and that excitement in his life. Arden searched all Corone for a new challenge. Though the monsters of the country were far from the maddening, gibbering kami, in the Cell, his search had come to end.

“I have atoned for my mistakes,” he continued, reflecting on the night Cassandra Remi paid the mystics a visit.

He had rescued Kyla Orlouge from death, and now she had repaid the favour. He had saved the Enigmatic Immortal from incarceration in his Neolithic tomb. He had inspired the remnants of the castle guard to a salient, though ultimately futile last stand.

Talen Shadowalker.

Joshua Cronen.

Jensen Ambrose.

Draug Remi.

These were the monsters he had spent decades preparing to face. Though his blade could not stay their rampage here today, the death he would deliver only had to be metaphorical. Giants, after all, have the furthest to fall. He laughed. His voice carried out over the battlements of Sei’s grandiose edifice, the ‘Mystic’s Tower’.

Compared to the previous encounters, this was truer to the tournament’s namesake. They would be contained, once they ascended the tower, and forced into close quarters. The coarse stone was cracked and worn, sandblasted and set free adrift in history. The crowd watched from afar, skein sliver revealing the madness as it transpired. The wind lapsed lazily across Arden’s bow.

“I’ve resigned myself to this path,” he concluded.

He balled his fists. He punched them together with a thud, the metal of his gauntlets chiming noisily. The leather of his gloves creaked, and his heart skipped a beat. With a thought, his red scarf shimmered with contained power. It extended, as though a waterfall of blood, and formed a full-length cloak that traipsed over the floor. He rested. He focussed. He was ready to do just what Sei had tasked him to do.

Kill the strong, save the weak.

Astarelle had to win. Arden did not know why, but if Kyla Orlouge gave her all for the Fallieni, then so would he.

“Long live Valeena!” he bellowed. He reached for his scabbard. He unsheathed his sword, to the tumultuous cheers of the crowd, and pointed it skyward. The Hound bore his Fang, and his bark resounded through Radasanth.

[Roht Mirage]

Astarelle Set'Roh stood silently in one of the few halls of Ixian Castle that didn't hum with activity. Her long skirt was as still as a statue's. Her corseted frame barely rose on each shallow breath. The only movement was her lataro staff, rocking back and forth ever so slightly before her toes, and the subtle shifting of her sand tattoos. It looked as if the mural of dunes was being kissed by wind, but it was not a wind that came through the small window she looked out of. It was the breath of Faroh, always connected, always a part of her. She had not prayed so deeply in... what felt ages. She had not wanted to reveal her location to her goddess, but now she knew the truth. There was no point in hiding.

With eyes closed, she turned her face to the gentle Corone sun and allowed herself to become once more a Farohtian priestess.

Roh, mother and guardian. I know I have no right to ask anything of you. But, I just don't know what you want anymore. The Kar'Roh threatened me when I left Fallien. I- I thought I was being hunted. I thought you sent them to take me back, alive or... as dead as you would allow me to be. I actually thought I could hide from you with the tricks that Akashere taught me. In every way, I was wrong. The Kar'Roh have been following me this whole time, haven't they? But... why? One of their puppets saved Raylene. I should thank-

Her eyes fluttered open. If I were you, she thought to the sky in a tight-lidded squint, and took a deep breath. Her chest pouted above the leather top. If I were Roh, I would try to make the runaway priestess feel guilty. She felt callous and ungrateful just thinking it. Her heart twisted into a knot of shame. I'm not ashamed. Her heart disagreed, and Roh certainly knew it. One could not bluff a goddess. But, she tried, because...

A teardrop-shaped memory came back to her from the ancient night in which she first met Akashere. He said that no cage could hold her, for she possessed something that even Roh feared. Determination.

Astarelle had her own word for it.

Roh, I will not thank you. Call me ungrateful, venomous, I don't care. What I am... is sand-blasted stubborn. If you don't like that, have one of your Kar'Roh sneak up and steal my heart. She spread her arms in proud supplication. Her eyes never strayed from the window, though she saw -or just imagined- movement at the corner of her vision. If you must, do it now. She willed her respiration into a calm tempo, or close enough. Three, six, ten long breaths. Nothing happened; absolutely nothing. Without looking around to confirm her isolation in the hall, she allowed a faint smile to touch her lips.

I'm still running. I'll never stop. But, there is something I have to do here first. There are people who cared for me when I was... nothing but a monster. I remember enough to know that I would not have tolerated a person like that in my home. You, certainly, would not have. Yet they did. They are the only ones I owe a debt to. Her staff jumped into her hands, and she snapped it into the crook of her elbow with a showy spin. Exhaling slowly, she turned from the window. I am grateful for the fact that your hunters saved Raylene. But... The shame still festered. Bury me, I will not thank you. I don't need you. I will find allies here who don't demand as much as you do.

Surely, she would, because she knew deep down that Roh's demands were as limitless as her fabled patience.

~

“Roht!” shouted Master Kotra from the end of the hall just as the former priestess approached the stairwell that would lead her skyward. He jogged toward her, sweat glistening on his dark -and very expansive- forehead. An enforcer was right on his heels, close enough that the old master's shadow might as well have put on polished armor.

“I told you. I'm Astarelle,” she said with a cheeriness that did not match the pale-knuckled grip on her staff.

Kotra skidded to a halt, the enforcer creaking solidly into position behind him. “You... you made it to the finals,” the fallieni elder said incredulously.

Astarelle allowed herself a long, soothing blink before resuming the good cheer. “Don't worry. I've got rope! The fight's as good as won.” She patted the ten meter rope that was slung diagonally over her torso. A blunt hook dangled from either end, which wasn't to her specifications, but she could kiss whoever had thought to include it.

Kotra's wrinkles sprouted even more wrinkles as she contorted his face. “You're... joking? This is no time for jokes.” With a sudden lowering of his head, he transitioned into the language of Fallien so quickly that Astarelle almost couldn't keep up. “I have to get the kids out of here. Raylene was attacked. The one who did it is still around somewhere.”

Astarelle tilted her head and studied his angular features, his mouth drawn tight, and the wizened eyes that seemed deathly focused on her. They also twitched ever so slightly to the side on each heart beat, as if he had a crow on his shoulder that would peck him blind if he dared look at it. Astarelle looked up at the enforcer who was, to her, anything but crow-like. “He's not going anywhere, is he?”

The knight stiffened and gave a stilted, “He and his children are staying where we can keep an eye on them.” Then, he shifted forward, causing the bulk of his armor to loom high over Kotra's shoulder. “We allowed this visit given your circumstances. Don't take it as opportunity to plan anything. You're lucky I'm allowing you to speak fallien.”

Astarelle glanced at Kotra's shakey eyes. “It's appreciated,” she said while shooting a chipper smile at the enforcer.

Completely unamused, he added, “We'll be taking you in for questioning after. There is a severed hand that no one has come forward to claim. Perhaps you can enlighten us as to why.”

Astarelle just nodded, then gave Kotra a sympathetic look and said in fallien, “I talked to Raylene after the Ai'Brone finished with her.”

For the first time, the old man truly looked old. With shoulders slumped in defeat, he looked at the floor and asked, “What did she tell you?”

“That man almost turned her into an unbound monster, just like he did to me.” She snapped her fingers just as had once been done to her; in that alley where all this madness began. Kotra jumped, and Astarelle felt a little twinge in her heart. She gripped her staff in both hands and leaned forward on it, speaking fallien at a softer volume simply to calm Kotra's nerves. “My hunters stopped him. I don't know why, and it probably won't happen again. But, now he only has one hand to perform the kaleidha with.”

“He can't,” Kotra said without lifting his eyes.

Astarelle raised a brow, skewing the divine Farohtian mark on her forehead. “I don't know why your tribe would send him after you, but I'm sure they taught him to do it with both hands.”

The old master, the gatherer of stray children and teacher of forgotten Fallien ways, actually colored in shame. He raise one hand and drew a finger down the back of it. “Only one hand...” he began, but words failed him.

“Tattoos,” the enforcer suddenly offered. Astarelle jerked her head up in shock before realizing that he had interpreted the gesture, not the language. “When we pulled the glove off the severed hand, it had tattoos. They seemed very... foreign.” The last word carried a weight that she almost found offensive.

“Your work?,” she accused with her eyes, dropping the false cheer that had allowed her to come this close to the arena. Kotra didn't look up. In fact, he shrank like a proud plateau collapsing into itself. He tried to say something, but couldn't force the sounds out. Then, Astarelle wrapped her arms around him, and he was too shocked to even try. The enforcer stepped back to avoid the wide sweep of Astarelle's staff, leaving them with a few moments of relative privacy. “I won't ask,” she whispered in a breath as quiet as desert dust settling, “I owe you too much. What I will do... is bring you some reinforcements. The only reason I was willing to go to this last round, to let them beat me for their amusement one more time, was to prove that I was someone they should take seriously.”

Kotra responded hoarsely, his nose pressing into her shoulder. “You might not ask, but they will. Blast it, they will. You can't impress them enough to avoid that. You're not Roht Mirage anymore.”

“I know.” She unclasped herself from him and held his shoulder in her free hand. He finally glanced up, though his eyes looked as if they were drowning in the far-flung past. “I'm no fighter. I can't even fake it. But, I'm going to show them I'm the most stubborn woman they've ever seen. The negotiations that follow, that's what I've been trained for. I'm going to bring you all the knights you need to put your history to rest.” Astarelle didn't know how to follow a promise like that, or even if she would be able to keep it. So, she turned and disappeared up the stairs, leaving a proud old man in stunned silence with his armored crow hovering oppressively behind him.

Like a rampaging sylph, she flowed up the staircase that coiled through the entire height of the tower. Floor after floor snapped past. The light that broke through the slit-windows was as crisp and clean as a series of blades, but she did not shield her eyes. Two steps at a time, she ascended, relishing each flashing cut of the light across her face. You monsters can cut me, crush me, throw me to my death. But, this is only a feint. When the dust clears, I'll strike where it matters, and I'll drag you all along to face a danger the Ai'Brone can't protect you from. So show me what you're capable of! She burst through the final portal, already open, and skidded to a stop on the coarse stone. A field of onlookers was visible in all directions over the toothy, waist-high parapet. They were hungry. So were her opponents.

Astarelle skipped onto her toes and spun a tight circle -one, two, three times- as she danced to a corner with her staff riding overhead, whipping the air while her body slipped through it gracefully. Four paces from the edge, she turned and pointed the reed at one she recognized. A desert-gold leg emerged from the split of her skirt as she shifted into a ready stance. Whether it was for battle or a performance wasn't clear.

“They tell me you're called Arden,” she said foxily, “I'm Astarelle, no matter what other names you may have heard. Care to dance again?”

[Breaker]

Dark water pressed inward like a vice forged from shadow, like a wet noose knowing only to tighten. Far beneath the riotous waves of the ocean's sun-sparkled surface, her true power dwelled in the crushing depths. With the weight of seas and storms and continents contributing to the pressure, walking along the ocean floor felt like carrying the world.

Breaker's enchanted black boots rose and fell in long exaggerated strides. One of the charms imbued in the boots let them weigh him down like hundred pound barbells, and the silty thickness of the saltwater slowed his steps further. Each footfall scared up microscopic bottom-dwellers amongst a cloud of dust that danced like angels before settling anew. A forest of colorfully curving coral dominated the murky underworld to his right. To his left yawned oblivion.

He had already sunk so far the sun's rays became a mere inkling of twilight amidst perpetual night. His heart rate had slowed to an occasional casual bah-dum. He could only slit his eyes to see, could not think of breath lest his focus slip allowing endless water to enter his mouth and nose. One more step to the left, one more leap of faith, and he'd be off the edge of the underwater canyon. Sinking through ink as he lost the power to think. Even Breaker could not survive such an ordeal. The sharks and groupers would feed on his remains, remoras and wolffish finding the scraps. His bones would be picked by the microscopic beings whose homes he destroyed with each step.

Breaker remembered this feeling, this place, this darkness and pressure and unexplored space. He had come here to kill himself two years prior, and found new purpose instead of demise. That had been a stormy night though, with as little light above as below. What could this be then... a dream of a memory? He recognized a growing glow ahead and knew. A dream, yes. A memory, yes. But Breaker's dreams were more than the random exorcism of memories recent and long past. He had brought himself there to find comfort in the arms of his Lady.

Currents roiled and colors emerged like a rainbow coaxed from her glow. She was there, but she would not take shape. Even a dreamer as strong as the Breaker could not summon her full majesty to his slumber. He opened his mouth to speak her name, and brackish water rushed in.

~*~

Joshua Cronen awakened in an unfamiliar stone chamber. Sunlight poured through windows facing south and west, casting shadows on plain stone walls. Water trickled into his lungs. He gagged and coughed and spat as he sat up, nearly knocking the slim monk who had been sluicing his brow over backwards. He scrubbed hands callused from hours of weapons training through short-cropped brown hair and down rough stubbled jaws. He traced the Y-shaped scars that blossomed from his dimpled cheeks and slid both coarse palms over his granite chin, past steely pectorals and washboard abdominals. He was fully healed, and fully nude save for the tight cotton trunks he wore as underwear.

And the monk was a woman.

With a start Josh recognized the Ai'Brone novice who had refreshed his health after the first round of the Cell. She was the only female he'd known the Order to allow within their ranks, and as he flexed fully functional feet Cronen understood the reasoning. The wounds she'd repaired for him following the first round had been trivial by comparison. In the Felicity Chamber his ankle had been destroyed following his encounter with the Genocide Giant, Tinerad Orlouge. But the injured limb did not even pop as he rotated it through its greatest range of motion. For a fraternity as old as Ai'Brone to open their ranks to a woman, she must have learned her magic before enrolling at the Citadel. Marvelling at the new scars that decorated his leg like abstract paintings in white and red, Josh took the room in at a glance and shot the Ai'Brone Novice a stern look as an afterthought.

The young woman blushed from her smooth throat all they way to the crown of her shaven head. The crimson paired nicely with the brown of her robe and amber of her eyes.

"Forgive me," she said, looking away from the table Cronen sat upon. Her focus lit on the only other furniture the room offered; a cloak rack and chair standing either side of the oaken door. "I did not intend to look upon you. Repairing your leg required the removal of boots and trousers... and the foul blood of the Abomination had stained your skin and hair." She held a dripping blue rag and bucket full of pink-tinged water up as evidence, and as a means of obscuring his body so she could see his hazel eyes without upsetting her chastity. "In order to fully cure the disease, I was first obliged to remove the source." She put the bucket down and focused fully on squeezing the cloth dry one droplet at a time.

"And you have my thanks again, noble healer." Cronen could not hide his smile. Her propriety and humility amused him, but his mind was thick with pressing matters. His belongings were strewn across the cloak rack and chair that stood sentinel by the door, and he asked after the next thing that entered his mind. "Are my friends about? The young woman red-and-gold of hair, the slim half elf, and the barrel-chested dwarf?"

"They wait in the corridor beyond," she said, nodding toward the door without raising eyes from the twisted cloth between her hands. "They are anxious to see you well and wish good fortune for the final melee." She peeked up from her endless task, shooting him a sly grin. "And mayhap to extract a promise not to finish the last battle in like fashion. Our healers did double duty following the end of the Felicity Chamber. You frightened a fraction of the audience to death."

Breaker's smile vanished as he slid off the sturdy table and paced to his belongings. A black Akashiman martial arts kimono and a soft red belt hung from the cloak rack opposite the sheathed greatsword. The garments were wrinkled and covered in bits of burlap telling of their recent purchase and hasty delivery. He stepped into the pants and set about fastening the soft buttons up the front of the jacket. In truth, he could not fully recall the final events of the Felicity Chamber. The Abomination's disease combined with his own blood loss and harrowing injuries had scalded the memories like boiling water poured into a greasy pan.

"My friends have little reason to worry," he told the Novice as he faced the oaken cloak rack, "I will not compete in the final round of Sei's bloodsport." He shrugged into the greatsword's scaly sheathe and slung the heavy coil of dehlar cable across both shoulders. the bald woman huffed angrily and marched past him. She slammed the door behind her. Josh quirked an eyebrow then turned toward the windows. "Sei actually gave me the corner office," he said aloud, shocked. Trees swayed distantly amidst a mild breeze that sent gold and brown leaves flurrying to the forest floor. The castle grounds bustled with activity that seemed centered around the tallest tower. Cronen lost himself in the events beyond the glass until he heard the door open and close again. He turned and nodded at Jacob Narmolanya.

The half elf's usual boyish grin abandoned him. He wore a stern mask atop earth-toned sifan clothing and soft leather boots. His unruly sandy hair failed to make his appearance comical as it clung slackly to his scalp. He had his liviol tonfa belted on his left hip. Although Cronen's memories of the day were scattered he recalled with certainty Jake had left the blue-hued fighting stick in Underwood. Therefore he had returned to the Concordian village by portal to fetch it in the minutes since the Ai'Brone novice's departure. Amongst his variety of useful skills the half elf held two in highest esteem; his knack for travelling miles with a single step, and his ability to batter larger foes with a seemingly non-lethal weapon.

"This isn't only about you, Josh," Jake said hotly as he approached. So, the Novice told them. "You may feel alone in these Mystic arenas, but I and Stacia and Master Bodorson have been watching. Even when we'd rather not." There was some guilt in the half elf's tone, a flicker in the intensity of his gaze, but he continued. "Underwood needs this victory, to bring us a new Sheriff. The Ixian Knights need this victory so Sei Orlouge knows he picked the right man as his new Chief Investigator. And Chronicle needs this victory, you're their last participant in the bloody tourny."

Shame built between Breaker's temples and gathered at the back of his throat, but he pushed the sentiment away. Jake knew him well, knew how to dredge up his infernal guilt. But by invoking the village of Underwood the youth had struck Cronen's reason for avoiding the final Cell.

"I can't watch Fae die again, Jake." Josh croaked, words thick, eyes stinging. Surely his friends would understand. Faelynn Thiadore was a young woman from Underwood, a girl he'd seen grow between visits to her father's forge. "Sei put her in my path twice already, and twice she's perished painfully at my hands. It's not worth--"

Jacob drew his tonfa one-handed and lunged. The blue stick blurred as it arced toward Breaker's ribs.

Crack, the blow echoed throughout the stone office. Josh winced and shifted away from the stick, minimizing the impact on instinct.

Smack, Jake spun smoothly and delivered a mirrored strike to the other side of his instructor's abdomen. Josh gasped and reeled. The half elf gritted his teeth and brought the tonfa overhead. He gripped the end below the crosspiece in both hands and swung at Cronen's skull like splitting timber.

Clang! The blow glanced off the dehlar sword-pommel protruding above his shoulders. Breaker had ducked a fraction of an inch at the last instant. His hands struck Jake from two directions, sending the tonfa spinning to the corner of the room while the half elf staggered into the table, clutching at his chest. Mere inches higher and the open-handed strike would have shattered his windpipe. His soft boots upset the Novice's bucket and water spilled across stone tile in a growing puddle. Jake picked the cloth up from where the bald woman had left it on the table and made as if to mop up the mess. The water rose under Breaker's magical influence and funneled back into the bucket. Jake clasped the blue fabric between his hands awkwardly, but his green eyes bored into Cronen's hazel ones.

"We came here to watch you fight... to watch you win." Jake said through a barely contained flood of emotion. "If you'd rather kill me in cold blood than do battle with those who would willingly oppose you in a tournament of legend... so be it. But I will watch you fight this day, even if it's the last thing I see." They stood frozen like sternly opposed statues, and then Jake shrugged and turned toward the corner where his tonfa had clattered against stone.

He wishes to carry the burden of my choice in this battle, Josh realized as his young friend stooped to retrieve the weapon. As much as he cannot... he would offer his life to change my mind. As the half elf turned Breaker recognized the blue cloth in his hands. Jake had stretched it taught to wrap it about the tonfa's handle, improving his grip. For a moment he displayed its size and triangular shape.

It was the blue kerchief Breaker had worn through the first two rounds of the Cell. The token given by his Lady to wear to victory that day.

Josh rushed forward with such speed Jake stumbled in surprise. Long muscular arms clad in dark denim sleeves caught him and embraced the half elf in a mighty bearhug.

"Get the others to the viewing grounds," Josh told his closest friend, "I think you'll want to see my entrance."

~*~

Breaker burst onto the tower's roof chased by the rapid-fire staccato of metal boots striding up stone stairs. He stepped onto one of the open cellar-style doors, adhering an enchanted boot to the sturdy timber. His motion tore the door from its hinges easier than pulling apart parchment. He kicked off the opening in the roof and flipped the door into his hands like a youth with a skateboard. His boots hit granite and he slid toward a vacant corner, twisting about like an elven ice dancer. He crouched and held the door as a makeshift shield, monitoring his opponents as his boots skidded and sparked over coarse stone. His back thudded against solid parapet, announcing his arrival in the north-west corner.

Seeing no archers with bows raised nor bladeslingers with arms cocked, Josh dropped the door and backflipped fluidly to land astride perpendicular parapets. The sun warmed the back of his neck and the greatsword Rythadine rocked between his shoulders in its scaly scabbard. Three cargo pockets bulged away from the body of the sheathe like spikes on a dragon's spine. Wind from the west whipped the blue kerchief knotted around his neck, and he summoned a cloud of steam that swept up and down his body. It cleaned and pressed his garments like they were fresh from the board, and buffed his boots till they glinted darkly. Sunlight brightened the white Y-shaped scars on his cheeks as he spread arms wide.

The roar of the crowd sounded from far below, voicing their thirst for blood. They cheered for Breaker, who had felled the Genocide Giant. Breaker, who had won the first two rounds outright. Breaker, who entered the tournament a favorite and saw the oddsmakers tip scales further in his favor with each fight. The attention had painted a target on his back, but he would cherish the battle even as he longed for it to end. With every moment he feared Fae might poke her little head through the trapdoor. But he'd entered to win, and he'd promised his friends a show.

"Roht!" He called across the square to the mysterious woman who balanced in the corner opposite his, "I feared we would not meet again so soon. Come embrace me!" Breaker began to unwind the long dehlar cable from his shoulders, paying no mind to the familiar-looking swordsman who stood between him and the Fallieni. He thought he recalled the fiery hair surrounding the eyepatch, and if it did belong to Arden Janelle... being ignored might entice the Hound to attack.

Josh has positioned himself atop the parapets in the corner opposite Astarelle. For the purposes of continuity I assumed that he burst onto the scene directly following her question to Arden, potentially interupting his response with all the noise.

[Hysteria]

Soft rays of sunlight streamed through the porticus, creating beams ending with a bright rectangle against the cracked and weathered stone walls. The smell was strong, dust and too much time, and it caused a slight look of annoyance to settle on Talen's face. His small, white features seemed to shine as he moved up the stairs, punctuated as he entered the streaming rays of light. His body was relaxed, hands plunged into the pockets of his pants and his gate slow and easy. His hair, ever messy, stood at wild angles from his head, adding to his general unkempt appearance.

“Tsk...”

The sound came from Talen's mouth as he pushed open the latch that led to the roof. His blue eyes fell on the three people who had beaten him to the top. Once again Arden was there, the hound has been constantly dogging me he thought, his smile broadening at his own wit unbeknownst to the world. A few more steps, the scraping of his feet on the ground as he feigned dragging himself out onto the roof was more effort than he could afford.

“Yo.” Said Talen, raising a his hand in an informal salute to Astarelle.

Talen didn't stop to chat to Breaker, pretending not to register him readying some kind of attack. The kid walked away from the trio, leaving whatever shenanigans they were going to get into to their own business. The kid took a seat on the wall in one of the embrasure and leant again a merlon. His arms rested in his lap for a second before dark ribbons materialised around them. The darkness quickly hardened into his gauntlets. The punch gauntlets, as they had been called, were made from shiny black metal. Each hand was turned into an assortments of blades, reaching down over his clenched fist, but also into claws extending from his fingers.

The kid's eyes focused on those present, waiting for more to arrive, and for the first attack to be thrown. His money was on Breaker, but Arden was also a wildcard. The youth's grin remained fixed, a gentle calm settling across his body.

* * *

I watched Talen walk out of the line of cells that hard marked the second scene of the battle. He looked sullen, his eyes focused on the ground in front of him. I don't think I've ever seen anyone concentrating quite so hard, his mind a million miles away. The youth's cloths were burned, a few small cuts and marks dotted his body, but overall he was unscathed. Compared to the mess of body parts and blood... well lets say he looked pretty good.

Despite myself I yearned to know what the boy was thinking. Shouldn't he be happy? He was going to move onto the next round after all. He seemed anything but. I moved with the crowd, not even the bravest among us got too close to him as he led the way. I guessed that he was heading towards the healing area. It'd make sense to get what little damage had been done to him healed before the next battle.

Behind me monks had already started scraping together body parts. How they would put some of those people back together I had no idea. At least it wasn't as bad as the first round. How does one turn a bag of mush back into a brain?

[Abomination]

Anyone is free to control Draug in a fight.

Draug awoke with a start, lifting his upper body up with trembling eyes. He took in his surroundings vacuously, having never experienced the sensation of memory loss before. He never slept, and this was the first time he actually lost consciousness. He stood up from the bed, finding himself covered head to toe in bandages, save for his eyes and mouth. He ripped the bandages off his head and tossed them aside, taking stock in the small room. There was a fresh cup of coffee on one of the tables, still steaming as if someone was just here recently. Next to it was an envelope, but right now he just grabbed his head and yelled out in rage.

What is going on? I... There is a gap in my memory! He hated not knowing what happened to him, being a creature that continuously absorbed information from his surroundings, forming an uninterrupted narrative of his existence. He was a creature with no long term memories, only being created recently by The Dark Mother to serve her will. Thus, he treasured any and all memories that were formed, and to him not knowing a part of his life was the same as not existing in that time period. What if he was simply a new Draug injected with the thoughts and feelings of the old one? He had no way to tell, no way to fill in the missing puzzle piece.

He sundered the table with his fist, the coffee spilling out onto the ground and the envelope floating gently nearby. Blood seeped through the bandages on his hands, and questioned bubbled in his mind. He looked down at the envelope and picked it up, opening it to reveal a letter inside.

The letter's contents surprised him: It was a list of all the competitors for the final round, including their names and observed abilities from the previous rounds. Why would someone leave something like this for him? Unless...

I'm in this round.

He tore the letter apart and discarded the pieces. His advancement was not the source of the anger, but rather the list of participants, at least half of which were killed in previous rounds. The described location also forced them to deal with Draug very intimately.

This is meaningless. Every life I snuff out just comes back, in this tournament everyone is the same as the Immortal.

He picked up the bed and chucked it through the door, sending both into the hallway with a crash. Dust rose from the debris, and Draug retrieved his black cloak from a nearby chair, wrapping it around his figure. Once again the risk was too great, and his best option was to go back to Memnar and discover the secret to ascension. He didn't feel Katherine's influence on his mind at the moment, so this may have been his only chance.

As he stepped out into the hallway, a painful sensation invaded his head, sending him reeling into the wall. He put his hands on the stone, gritting his teeth as blood dripped from his nose. The feeling passed, and when he looked down the hall he saw a hooded figure walk up to him. Draug's grimace turned into a grim when he recognized the man.

"Just who I wanted to see," Draug said.

Memnar pulled his hood down, sporting dark rings under his bloodshot eyes, "I see that you've changed already. A little more, and even the best the Ixians have to offer won't be enough, I suspect."

"Alchemist!" Draug roared. "The essence speaks to me. It tells me of possibilities! We must head back and ascertain its worth."

Memnar sighed, "If it was that easy, we would've done it already." Draug's mouth hung slightly agape as usual, revealing his razor sharp teeth. "I figured I would tell you this personally, since I doubt you would trust the words of anyone else." Memnar fished out a small vial filled with crimson liquid. "This is some blood we collected from Mr. Ambrose. You can assimilate him and get as many memories as you want, it won't do you any good. We want you to continue to improve while it's still risk-free."

"Risk-free?" Draug wondered. "Here?"

Memnar nodded, "Notice how I'm here? I'm the last one to get anywhere near this place if it wasn't safe. We have something going on, so go ahead and continue to improve. I will analyze the results afterward."

Draug spat on the floor, "Very well."

After he moved to the tower, Jebb Remi appeared beside Memnar, "Looks like he bought it."

"Maybe," Memnar shrugged. "I don't know what he's thinking anymore. Make sure everything's going smoothly on your end and we won't have a problem."

"Watch your tongue boy," Jebb snapped. "If my darling daughter wasn't so infatuated with you, you would just be another meal for Draug."

Memnar resisted the urge to glare at his master's father and knew that there was a hint of truth to his words. Nonetheless, he was not going anywhere anytime soon.

Some time passed, allowing the Abomination to arrive at the scene. Draug leaned against the rampart on top of the tower, waiting for the others to arrive and the round to officially begin. He was now quite aware of his opponents, and their nonchalance despite their close proximity amused him. There was one advantage to such close quarters, and it was that there was no escape that didn't involve a long trip to the ground.

Once most of the competitors arrived, Draug looked up to the sky and opened his mouth, spraying a couple liters of blood into the sky, against the wind. He planned to start things off by infecting every single person here.

Draug just created a rain of plagued blood. I'd like to assume everyone arrived before he did so, but it's up to anyone who hasn't posted yet.

[Arden]

Arden lowered his blade, turned to Roht, and smiled. He ignored the other combatants as they appeared. He had a plan. He had a direction. Pomp and regalia would not sway him.

“Oh, I’d love to,” he said. He bowed his head and body, servant-like. He switched the Fang to a reverse grip in his left hand, and held out his gauntlet in a friendly offer. “Only if, my lady, it’s not the tango.”

The second he held out a gauntlet, it began to rain. Any normal man would have been repulsed at the sight of blood falling from the heavens. Arden, on the other hand, drew strength from life. He looked up, let the ichor wash over him, and smiled at the irony.

Draug had given the Hound a distinct advantage, and as Fang drank the homunculus’ tainted blood, a plot formed in the swordsman’s mind. The final round of the Cell would be a bout of dinner, death, and dancing.

“Take the lead,” he said, as he dropped his bloodied gaze to his partner.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

He sat immobile on the seat in the staging area, body still covered in dried flakes of blood, dirt, and food. His ears rang loudly, everyone’s words a garbled mess of fuzz. His eyes were shut, not looking to anyone, and his nose gently breathed the air around him. He took in a lungful, let it go, and listened again. Nothing had changed.

But something had. He could suddenly hear feet pounding up a staircase, fingers drumming with anticipation, and the murmurs of many. It was as if a slack wire and suddenly gone taught and Jensen rose with the rise of the masses.

“The winds,” Jensen said after a time. “They are picking up. I can feel the tension,” He closed his eyes again and narrowed his shut eyes.

“The round is starting,” the green-haired elf mumbled back. She was next to Jensen, wearing his jacket and leaning against the wall as he meditated. She and Felicity, the small black cat in his lap, had been the first on the scene to him when the barrier went down. They took his body straight to Aislinn who did her best, leaving Jensen to repair the final details on his own. He had slowly regenerated, his Breath of the Undying moving in rhythmic patterns akin to an ocean wave across his torso and legs. When it was done he tossed his jacket off and sat in a chair, closing his eyes, and focusing on the world around him. The two ladies decided to let him be, but also stuck by for another reason.

The Dark Family was there. Cassandra Remi’s kin had been a thorn in Jensen’s side for years and it seemed perfectly in character for them to even the odds to assist Draug in keeping the immortal down. However, the Immortal knew they wouldn’t pull any stunts. Something in the little child abomination that was Draug was different.

In the first round he was all about the Dark Mother. All about sacrifice, about punishing Jensen and making him squirm; the usual Cult of Blessed Torture antics. But the second round had seen a dramatic change in Draug. He was just as preoccupied with the Dark Family as Jensen was. Draug could have won his fight against Jensen by smashing his face into the barrier. He had the strength but he was holding back. He was a creature that could evolve, but could he evolve to…

“Draug’s gaining control.” Jensen said at last, lifting his frosting covered dirty nails to pet Felicity. Her eyes went wide and ears flipped back as she tried to avoid him, but he was too fast for the fuzz ball.

“Excuse me?” Tobias asked giving him a confused eyeball. Jensen looked up to where the battle was going to be starting soon.

“Nothing leaf licker,” Jensen yawned, stretching as he stood up dumping Felicity to the floor. With cat like reflexes she landed with grace, glaring daggers at Jensen as she began to clean herself.

“So then what are you going to do?” Felicity ‘asked’ Jensen. He shrugged as he usually did, scratching the back of his neck in the same spot he always did, letting out a rasp of a sigh and patting his belly.

“I don’t know…” Jensen said lowly. “I just…don’t know.”

~*~*

The immortal had waited in the tower for his answer, thinking long and hard about what this round meant to him. It meant a great deal to Sei, to Joshua Cronen, to Arden Janelle and to that new girl. What it meant to Talen was unknown; probably a club house he and his friends could go play hide and seek in. Draug was always for the Cult; at least, that’s what started him down this path. But the options were still narrow for Jensen. Why was he fighting?

To fight with a purpose; an ideal that you would give your all for no matter if it is right or wrong, is the warrior’s pride. The words of his mentor Ta’gaz Nosiba and come to his mind. Jensen clenched his fist. He wasn’t sure if a purpose could change, and he had no mentor to ask him. Jensen was as alone as he ever felt in his life. The names stitched into the back of his jacket gave him no comfort today. He had to think this one alone.

He could hear Arden talking above him, the Hound having an internal monologue no doubt. He looked to the staircase leading to the tower top. He debated on what Duffy’s advice would have been in his broken Scara Braen accent. He shook his head and pushed those thoughts away. For now, he had a mission to do. He walked up the steps into the arena, taking to the roof at the same time Breaker jumped into the arena as Arden talked with the Fallien girl.

“Watch for those two,” Jensen said to her with a wink passing her by. “They are heart breakers.”

Jensen looked to Talen sitting on the wall, and he grinned to the boy. “You look like your father forgot to pick you up from practice,” Jensen twirled and landed on the side of the tower walls next to Talen. “I’d know something about that,” he mused. He too watched the scene between the Breaker and the Hound and the Fallien native. “Twenty gold says Joshua flexes his muscles for her just once.”

Jensen didn’t wait for a reply as he watched Draug appear. He narrowed his eyes, watching the bastard look to his combatants, and then did the nastiest spittle drop the immortal had ever seen. Knowing full well what that the man was full of poisonous tricks the immortal took his coat and spun standing before Talen. He dropped his jacket over the kids face and pushed the wind around him allowing the acidic substance and infectious disease to hit the stone walls around him.

“Watch my back, bed wetter!” Jensen shrieked as he ripped the switch blade sword from the belt loop and activated the scythe mode charging after Draug. Laughter built up within his stomach and like a damn breaking his mirth let out in a wail of screams and giggles, rushing down the abomination.

((Jensen Covered Talen, and used his Leaf on the Wind power [1 of 3] to push the rain away from them both. Talen has Jensen’s jacket which has two throwing Glaives, and the war maul Crozius attached to it. He is currently attacking Draug with a charging attack. Jensen has stored one EX move.))

[Roht Mirage]

Astarelle did not need the jovial newcomer's advice, though she did flash him a smile just in appreciation for his tone.

Oh yes! Hold me, Breaker, you lady-throwing, eye-punching, sun-scorched puddle of scorpion piss. The venom rolling in her mind soured her painted-on smile. She was just about to say it too, but took a moment to guess how quickly the grappler, once enraged, would close the distance between them.

Wary of what the bastard might throw at her -or throw her at- this time, she looked toward Talen. She had heard his name after waking, but still thought of him as her guardian shadow. From the beginning to the end of their battle in the prison, he had been at her side. That, she had to be informed of also, as she had lost track of him during the explosive finale. She raised a hand and almost mirrored his colloquial greeting, but was overridden by Arden's elegant riposte of her dance metaphor.

Nothing but surprises in the Cell. She turned an inquisitive glance toward Talen. If he objected-

Before her eyes could alight on the youth's lounging form, she saw the shrouded stranger spew blood into the air like a being from her nightmares. Bad surprises, too. The wind took the droplets back over the tower. Bad bloody surprises! The simple instinct of a desert native, mixed with the sensibilities of a rizak-wielding Farohtian, took hold. She would not let her sand get wet; not again. The Ella chamber, two resurrections-of-convenience ago, was all too fresh.

The sand tattoo along her empty hand moved almost of its own accord, forming a claw that she used to split her already-split skirt in its entirety. She lifted the cloth on one arm and propped the swaying end outward with her staff just in time. A sickeningly heavy patter sounded so close that she shivered, then the stone around her drummed a thick vibrato. It smelled of iron and... death, almost. It was too fresh to smell dead, but she couldn't put it off as imagination. With her makeshift umbrella still rigid, she couldn't see Talen or his friendly elder, but she was able to watch Arden just by turning her head; and almost wished she hadn't.

On many a journey over Fallien's rolling dunes, she would have given anything to have a mere moment of rain. Just a few seconds -with her sand tucked safely away- to feel the drops on her bare skin, the weight of her hair as it went limp, the tease of moisture in her parched throat. Sweet, crystal life. She saw the same joy in Arden as he surrendered to the spray, coloring his face in streaks to match his hair. And just plain weird surprises, also...

After the shower, he faced her. His eyes seemed maniacal and absurdly dangerous behind the blood dripping from his lashes. She lowered her cloth tarp and readied her staff in case he charged, but he -in apparently all seriousness- beseeched her to lead him.

Astarelle suddenly realized that she was even more bare than if she wore a Farohtian dancing cosutme, which would have had enough function to, in her mind, be considered modest. Now, in a corset and tight leggings not even as low as the knee, she was anything but. At least none of the blood had touched her gracefully toned and softly desert-painted legs. Her tattoos even shifted, rolling over the meager stretches of fabric to extend the dune mural from knee to ankle.

Bury me! I don't care. I'm sure half of them have already seen my insides.

Without touching the soiled side of her retired skirt, she slung it over the edge of the tower and spread her feet in a purely battle-ready stance, unconsciously keeping to the little island of clean stone amid the spattering of blood graffiti. If he wants direction...

“Arden,” she commanded in a tone that came out more sultry than she intended, but all the better. “You seemed to enjoy that. There's the source right there.” She pointed her staff at the man -the thing- called Draug. “Let's squeeze the rest out!”

She flicked an apologetic glance toward Talen, who she couldn't make out in the taller man's rush and the ripple of his fallen coat. “As long as I have my shadow with me,” she called sweetly, only a hint of concern making her voice flutter.

“And Breaker!” She kept the teasing edge... barely. “If you really want to embrace me.” It shook, teetered, nearly fell into the realm of disgust.

“Then- then- Go hug a harpy!”

Even Astarelle had her limits.

Without waiting for any responses, she moved toward the center of their platform, sidled around the open, stair-tongued pit, and closed on the blood-spewing man without overtaking the one called Jensen. Whatever was about to happen, she wanted a bit of distance between her and the theatrics.

[Breaker]

The calm before the cyclone of combat.

Breaker experienced the same phenomenon in the first round's Ella Chamber, and in the middle frame's Felicity. His own approach to melees dictated leaving his emotions outside the arena, but the pain of Faelynn's double demise haunted him so strongly he'd nearly abandoned the tourny. Jake's furious insistence and boundless aggression had restored the balance required to overcome five killers, to fight the best Althanas could offer. Breaker took lessons from the first two rounds, where his initial headlong assaults had shattered the nervous tension between participants. Adapting his strategy, he waited patiently for someone else to draw the group's attention, uncoiling most of the dehlar cable from his shoulders and looping it twice around the tower's corner parapet. A cylinder of ice joined the loops to one end, anchoring the cable to the granite block.

The Abomination vomited a wave of blood into the wind.

Even with the breeze at his back the full stench of the fetid fluid invaded Breaker's nostrils. It conjured painful memories from the Felicity Chamber. The martial artist had no focus to spare on flickering images of Fae falling with a redwood stake through her chest. He leaped off the rampart and sprinted across the tower's northern limit. The ends of his red belt flicked and snapped like flags in a gale as his body became a black blur with a crimson stripe. The blue kerchief tugged at his neck as the slipstream begged to pull it free. Dehlar cable spooled out from the pile of heavy coils he'd left in the north-west corner.

Josh leaped over the eastern rampart, losing the sun's warmth as he dropped along the tower's shadow side. The cable stretched taught and he swung into the immovable wall, bracing both boots against coarse granite. He heard the wet spatter of blood atop the structure, like a sudden summer cloudburst that ended as swiftly as it started. In the Felicity Chamber he'd allowed the Abomination's disease to infect him, and his judgment had fallen victim to the potent sickness. He would need clarity of mind to best the foul beast amidst a gang of worthy warriors.

The crowd's gasp at seeing their champion plunge toward a deadly drop became a full throated roar of approval. He raced along the east-facing wall like a spider suspended on metal web.

Breaker rounded the south-eastern corner at a run, boots clinging to the wall with each step. The cable snaked along the wall behind him and he angled upward as it tightened around his torso. Lungs and legs burning with the effort, he crested the ramparts at the south-western corner and paused for an instant to check his work.

Droplets of blood spotted the granite rooftop like an abstract masterpiece in grey and red. The cable stretched taught from its anchor point in the north-western corner. It extended along the tower's northern border within the stone ramparts, but strained against the outside of the eastern parapets. The cable's porous dehlar exterior grated up the tower's shaded wall inch by inch as Cronen looped another length around his torso. He strained for an instant, heels braced against the rampart, leaning back over the dizzying drop to take every inkling of slack out of the artfully strung cable.

Breaker whipped the dehlar cord up and over the eastern wall and dove backwards off the opposite rampart. The cable shwicked across the battlefield at chest height like the reverberation of a lute's plucked string. Although it could catch any or all of the combatants, Breaker had angled the cable so it would gather around the closing group of Roht, Jensen, and Draug. If the attack worked as intended, it might clothesline them over the waist-high barrier to join his earthward plunge.

Josh curled into a ball as the cable squeezed his shoulders. It caught on the corner parapet and slammed him against the western wall, crushing air from his lungs. He embraced the pain and forced his boots to find purchase, running up the outside of the tower. Cheers from below strengthened his strides as the sun warmed his black gi and wind combed his close-cropped hair. He reached up and planted both callused palms atop the tower's north-western corner.

Breaker vaulted between his arms and over the parapet that served as the cable's anchor. Both boots landed on the rooftop amidst the sickening splat of displaced blood.

Already the rooftop smelled of death.

The cable is 30 yards long, which equates to 90 feet, more than enough to stretch across three sides of the tower. Breaker's weight was distributed across at least two points of contact each time the cable stretched taught, so the full stress was never on the anchor block.