Round 1 Newcomer: The Wanderer Vs The Scarecrow

[Silence Sei]

Battle begins tonight at Midnight CST. Good luck!

[The Wanderer]

It hung, so exquisitely, upon its thin perch, sitting in melancholic stillness as if it knew of its impending fate and had resigned itself to solitude. It wasn't without beauty, however.

Warm streams of beige marked its narrow spines, twisting and turning through the blazing orange of its body. Time had been unkind to this natural art, but it had also given it majesty in recompense.

Then, with nary a warning, the leaf began to fall.

It pranced through the air with a knowing grace, dipping and pirouetting, gliding with a flow that even the most renowned of Althanas' dancers would be envious of.

The air cradled its wayward cargo as gently as an old lover and with one final swoop it daintily laid the leaf upon its target.

Adamusk's muscles released the faintest of twitches the fallen leaf slid softly atop his face. He remained perfectly still, allowing it to sit over his eyes, covering them from the world.

"It seems I've found a friend." he said softly, grinning at the thought.

Minutes passed and not another sound escaped the young man's lips. The air about him hummed with the murmur of insects and small animals calling out to one another in a swirl of heady ambience.
Slowly, the Wanderer slid his right hand from its place as a pillow underneath his head and picked up the leaf, letting out a heavy sigh.

"Do you think I've got a shot at winning this thing?" he muttered upwards towards the large oak he was under.

It responded with nothing more than the gentle sway of its branches in the wind, leaves fluttering from their homes and taking flight in unison. It was a magnificent sight.

"Yeah, I didn't think so either.." Adamusk whispered back. With another sigh he began laboriously heaving his body upright, pushing his arms to the ground then flipping his lower half beneath them before standing into a long, luxurious stretch.

He looked out over the wide plain he had been resting in, tall motley brown grass for as far as one could see in each direction waving about with each chilling breeze. The old oak stood alone amidst the sea Fall's embrace like a bastion of Spring hope, though even it was succumbing to the tide of the seasons.

Far to the east, almost as a speck on the horizon, the arena stood in solitary diffidence.

The Magus Cup.

He threw the words around in his head, feeling every syllable as if it would provide him with some enlightenment on the subject.

Adamusk had wondered of the peculiar nature of this tournament. He had been trekking through the heart of Skavia for three straight weeks when, out of absolutely nowhere, an envelope had, quite simply, fallen from the sky. Though hesitant at first, he opened it to find an immaculately designed invitation with specific directions to the tournament. Though he thought it highly odd, the Wanderer felt compelled to answer, feeling that this might be the opportunity he had been seeking to begin gaining stead in the world.

Now, however, seeing the arena so far from civilization the feeling of something being amiss rose up through his chest.

It was far too late to turn back now, however.

Adamusk bent over with a quick twist, sliding a cane up from the ground next to the ancient arbor. He laid his hand on its rough bark, gazing up into the increasingly scant branches.

"Now, don't you go placing bets on the schmoe I'm up against. I'll hear about it, ya see?"

He chuckled lightly before trudging east, his eyes set on the speck on the horizon.

[The Scarecrow]

“I’ve been all over Lynaeus…”

The dirt was riddled with a myriad cracks around the elliptical amphitheater. The entire building appeared to be devoid of staff but the competitors’ lounges were filled with all the commodities high class guests would need. These ranged from large comfortable beds to showers with hot water and, in some cases, minibars and refrigerators.

It was a mystery how this kind of technology had found its way into Althanas but he wasn’t about to question it. He who rested on one of the beds located in one of the many empty rooms within the eastern wing of the edifice. He had calculated around forty rooms just gazing down the hall the moment he’d arrived.

“… But never in my life…”

Silence filled his ears as he explored the pristine corridors as though the entire thing was the ancient tomb of a Tawon god. Hands of Avadon rarely got the chance to enter these dungeons but he had been part of a privileged sort.

Varell of the Telera clan…

Losing all the prestige and power amassed back on Lynaeus to a single man who had had the nerve to toss him into the strange realm of Althanas. Him, who could cause duke and duchess, shaman and wizard, lord and lady to bow their heads at the mere mention of the Black Fortress. If only his enemies could see him now, devoid of any sort of influence and forced to sell his sword to get by.

It filled him with rage.

The type of battle lust that only a barbarian felt in the thick of the action.

The kind of fury that had allowed him to slaughter camps of Khemerian rogues in the middle of the night.

The sort of emotion that drew him to an enormous pair of partially open bronze doors only to push and walk through the impending light filtering through the opening.

What he witnessed next left him briefly breathless.

"… Have I seen anything like this…"

It was as though the amphitheater came to life in the blink of an eye. The roaring sound of the... crowd? No... He was sure there was nobody in the stands. His training as a Hand of Avadon allowed him to see past mental tricks and most forms of illusory techniques, and yet...

The crowd remained, cheering in the stands as their utterances resonated throughout the elliptical form of the open grounds. They echoed throughout the surrounding area as a chilly wind rippled through the plains.

They were ghosts... Cursed souls destined to spend an eternity bound to this place.

Once he was able to cast his gaze away from the spectral crowd and manage to get over his initial amazement, it didn’t take Varell long to notice that the edifice was not simply an amphitheater. With a few glances here and there, it was very easy to see that the concrete stage featured many different weapons hanging from a number of pillars dotting the battlegrounds.

He counted eight in total, with six weapons each. Each pillar sported a different variety of weapon ranging from the safety of polearms to the most dangerous of knives. Even guns dangled freely from one of them. These were gladiatorial grounds, built for the entertainment of the masses in a realm where manslaughter was revered and enjoyed. It was, simply put, an arena.

“… What a waste.”

In his right hand there was a letter with elaborate handwriting with a greeting and a series of instructions. It told him of a tournament being held all across Althanas and that he had been selected for it. There wasn’t much in terms of an explanation other than the list of instructions below, which allowed the Hand to know how to get to the edifice he currently rested in.

Duly staring at the anonymously signed piece of paper, he pondered on all he had discovered thus far.

“Specters still haunt this place but it’s very odd… Only the crowd has been victim of the enchantment or spell that bound their souls to the stands. There are no gladiators and no other fighters of spectral origins…” A long exasperated sigh escaped Varell’s parted lips.

“And no sign of my quarry or my… Opponent in this ‘Magus Cup’. Perhaps I could demand leads from the hosts. See if they know anything. They wouldn’t dare bring the gaze of Avadon upon them, even if the reach of it is… Limited at the moment.”

Thus he lay in bed, awaiting for the crowd to bellow the name of the other person who was soon sure to arrive just as they uttered his own name a mere twenty minutes ago. With yet another sigh, Varell crumpled up the letter and slid it into the right pocket of his travel pants.

What a waste, indeed.

[The Wanderer]

It had taken Adamusk far less time than he anticipated to arrive upon the arena grounds. He had originally marked the time it would take him at several hours, but it had ended up being mere minutes. It was almost as if some force had become impatient with his dawdling and had expedited his journey.

The Wanderer's stomach tingled with uneasiness as his foot met the worn dirt that encircled the arena's perimeter. He had to fight hard against his instincts and quell the desire his desire to turn tail. Though this whole affair was steeped in oddness, he hadn't come all this way to merely visit the coliseum and then bolt. He meant to see this through, no matter it's intent. Curiosity had been stabbing his stomach from the moment he read the letter and it's anxiety ridden allure trumped the voice telling him to step back from the ominous structure. This close, however, it was impressive.

From a distance it, seemed just a basic stone structure but upon nearer inspection an artisan's touch became wholly apparent. Massive, yet detailed, carvings lined the smooth walls, all etched with incredible skill and care. Most depicted scenes of battle, illustrating all manner of gladiatorial combat from a simple duel to a woman who appeared to be fighting several beasts at once.

Adamusk walked cautiously toward the nearest slab, glancing to his sides for anything that would validate his feelings of distrust for this place. The sun was on the verge of its setting and its rays struck the stone from such an angle that it cast glittering shadows from its deep carvings. The Wanderer craned his neck back as he drew nearer to get a better view of the picture in its entirety.

It appeared to be the inside of an arena, he assumed this one, but the combat ring was completely devoid of fighters. In sharp contrast, the stands surrounding it were positively overflowing with patrons. They were chiseled into expressions of mad glee and macabre excitement, as well as something that lined their faces that he couldn't quite make out. He perched himself steadily on the tips of his toes and squinted his eyes.

"Tears.." he whispered aloud in mellow discovery. The sheer magnitude of detail within the dark artistry sent a cool shiver down the Wanderers spine. Though he was a young man, he had collided with many odd and strange things while traversing the lands of Salvar. This, however, rang of despair. With a cool sigh he placed his hand on the walls smooth surface, bracing himself as he returned to his flat feet.

He suddenly ripped it from its exterior and jumped back several feet, cursing as he did so.

The damned thing was moving! The image of the empty arena had taken on magical life and was shifting in front of his very eyes. The mass of the crowd was moving about like a wave, the patrons rolling about in motions of jeer and malice. The center of it, the stage of battle, had suddenly grown eight individual pillars, each with weapons lining their sides. Adamusk's eyes twitched when they neared what lay between them. There, at the very apex of the carving, were two figures. One appeared to have the garb of a laborer or scientist and bore an odd looking contraption upon his forearm. The other, directly across from it, dressed in a long coat with a cane in hand. His curiosity had broken past satiation.

"Hmm. Well, freaky is an understatement here." he said in self-soothing earnest.

The pale-skinned man took several more steps back from the surface and committed himself to finding the entrance of the place. It began to dawn on him as to the nature of the arena. It was obviously heavily enchanted and from his best guess, it hadn't been at this location upon its construction. There was something more to it than that, however, it seemed as if the thing was... Alive. Adamusk could, quite literally, feel the violence emanating from the grounds and he guessed the images plastered upon its walls were trophies of its conquests.

As he rounded the final corner towards a set of massive wooden doors, his feelings of doubt and uneasiness slipped away, replaced by a new feeling entirely; Excitement. He suddenly felt an odd, nauseous desire well up into his gut and his marred hands began to shake. His logical side fought hard against this new, yet familiar, emotion but it had been waiting a long time for an opportunity to ascend into Adamusk's consciousness and wasn't to be put down.

He walked purposefully up to the doors and gave them a hearty push, swinging them open widely, before continuing inside. If he was surprised the doors closed behind him on their own, he did not show it. He merely continued his stalwart march, striding past empty hallways and arches before finally reaching the ring's opening.

The sun's light was fading ever faster and its last beams peeked over the coliseums edge weakly. Torches lined the perimeter of the stage however, as well as great braziers sitting atop each of the eight stone pillars that sat symmetrically along it's rim. Everything was as it had been in the image outside. The crowd seemed to flicker in and out of existence in ghostly form, though the raucous noise that rung from them never ceased.

The Wanderer took a step into the warm orange glow of the arena's battlefield.

"ADAMUSK POLLINEAUX" The crowd suddenly chanted in reverent and violent unison.

A malicious grin grew on his face.

If this grotesque amphitheater wanted blood, he would give it blood.

[The Scarecrow]

Varell was lost in his thoughts when the chanting of the crowd echoed throughout the amphitheater’s corridors and the surrounding area. The booming shouts took him by surprise and the once relaxed Hand quite literally jumped off of the bed to rush down the main corridor to the west. The first observation he could make was that the shouts were not coming from the main battlegrounds in the building. Those doors of dull bronze in the western wing of the edifice remained closed. The most logical deduction he could make was that whoever or whatever had disturbed the crowd had to be on the opposite end – the eastern wing.

Besides the forty rooms that he had previously pointed out, Varell noticed that the main hall turned sharply at the end at both the westernmost and easternmost ends. He hadn’t explored these two since there was not a reason to, but given the state of a different spectral crowd in a completely new battleground – or so he assumed -, it was only rational for him to head towards the source of that noise. If this place was anything like the ruins back on Lynaeus, monsters would undoubtedly be hiding right around the corner. He needed to prepare and act accordingly.

The first step Varell took was to check the state of his wristflinger, the mechanical contraption attached to his wrist that possessed the capability of shooting powerful razordisks, and to charge up a minor amount of raw energy within it. The inner mechanism of the ‘flinger had gotten partially damaged in Varell’s involuntary trip to Althanas, and so it only allowed him to launch Charged Shots.

He had been lucky to test it as soon as possible to learn of its condition, since in his first few days of wandering, a couple raggedy bandits had jumped him. Naturally, he’d disposed of them through unconventional means, but just imagine what would’ve happened if he’d tried to shoot a razordisk and nothing came out! The mere thought of it made him laugh.

Laughter that contrasted rather grimly with the wild ovation of the crowd that continued to echo through corridors of iron and stone. Laughter that soon died down once he spotted a pair of wooden doors at the very end of the hall. Years of mental training managed to shake most emotions that could have a negative impact in his abilities, leaving only focus and caution as the top priority.

Immediately noticing that the doors would not open after the first few pushes, he began to look for answers in the stone walls. Often times, while monsters were one of the many perils in the dungeons of Lynaeus, switches or tiles that stood out could be found when searching the rugged walls of a cavern or the pristine ceramic of a castle.

This amphitheater was no exception to that unspoken rule, for no sooner had Varell started to gaze at the bricks, there was one that caught his eye. The rune TÃ*waz had been carved on its surface, but the methods utilized in its carving eluded even him. Using his free hand to push the brick, the rune soon lit up and the walls appeared to fold back on itself, splitting in twain directly at the middle only to reveal yet another corridor.

"How unnecessary. A simple switch to open these doors would’ve been a lot easier than installing a mechanism like this. It’s strange, though…" Varell commented while staring at the hand he’d used to push the brick. It was enveloped in a dull and dark purple light. “Careless of me. Some strange magic seems to be numbing the muscles of my hand up to the wrist. I don’t think I’ll be able to use it until this… Curse wears off. Sometimes, just sometimes, I miss the curses in Lynaeus. Lot easier to deal with than this crap.”

While he spoke to himself, long strides took him past a number of arches and more halls, figuring that the design of the corridor on the other side of the doors must have been identical save for the twists and turns that took him around the cheers of the crowd. All until he reached the entrance to yet another arena… But was it really all that different?

"I've been running in circles all along..." He chastised himself at the very late realization.

The answer was no. It was the exact same arena that was found behind the bronze doors but there was strange magic at work here. More powerful than the illusory magic he had been trained to ward off, the corruption in the amphitheater was confounding Varell’s mind, causing him to roam through the corridors only to end up in the very place he’d analyzed several minutes ago.

Only, this time, he was on the opposite end of the bronze doors - as the challenger instead of the one who would be challenged. And it was all too clear who the crowd was cheering for once he witnessed that man standing in the sunlight bathing the arena.

“So that is why they’re all going wild, eh? Maybe this is the guy I have to defeat to move on in the cup. These guys sure do know how to set up a stage, but I think the powers at work here are a bit out of hand.” The Telera muttered to himself while stepping into the ring. His piercing stare met the other man’s head on, but there was no movement that indicated hostility from his part just yet. “It’s nothing personal. If there’s any chance of going back, I just have to take it. This is only a stepping stone for me. It’s a shame, really. I’ll have to kill you even if this crowd doesn’t want their… Champion to lose.”

It had been some time since he’d last felt the thrill of battle. But the adrenaline came quickly and that familiar feeling of blood rushing through his system was embraced completely. His opponent was going to fall here today, perishing upon the hot sand of the arena.

The canvas was set. All that remained to be seen is whose fighter’s blood would paint the battlefield.

[Max Dirks]

The Scarecrow advances to round two!

The Wanderer continues on in the loser's bracket!