Round 1: Ashes to Ashes v Paint-a-Wagon

[Logan]

Round 1 pits Ashes to Ashes (Christoph and Flames of Hyperion) versus Paint-a-Wagon (Shinsou Vaan Osiris and Elite Optic), and will begin on Tuesday, March 15th at midnight EST.

[Flames of Hyperion]

“This is a dream.”

Why then, time after time, did he revisit this tower? Dawn dew glistened on walls of polished stone, and on the black blade poised high over the elegant bed. A brisk breeze stirred his sweat-damp scalp from the open window behind him. The sun beat down on his neck, lord of blue skies as bright as any hope, casting its blinding glare upon Winyaurient, Castle in the Clouds.

Why then, time after time, did he watch Xem’zund’s bone-hilted sword fall? His heart stopped beating every time it pierced her flesh. His screams echoed without sound, his mind held prisoner to paralysis. Clenched fists drew blood from his palms. Rivulets of watery crimson spilled from the spidersilk sheets. Necrotic plague ate at the fringes of her wounds, an entropic rot that turned flesh to sooty ash.

“This is all a bad dream.”

Words of despair spilled from his lips like the tears that he could no longer cry. Kayu’s dying screams forever lingered in his ears, every echo like a shard of glass across his soul. Why then, time after time, did he willingly relive this moment? Was it solace he sought, in the shadow of his greatest failure? Or was it to reaffirm his solitude, in the only place that he dared ever to see her again?

But today, somebody else intruded.

“I didn’t expect to find a Dawnbringer so broken. Is this the will that brought down a Forgotten One?”

The strange voice belonged to a strange face, curiously nondescript and framed by curly hair the colour of earth after rain. How many months had passed since he had last laid eyes on another, or heard a voice not his own? Only the irises stood out on first glance, an old man’s stare on a young man’s face.

He met that gaze, then glanced away. The tower in Winyaurient crumbled from sight, torn apart by the freezing cold of a Berevaran blizzard. The brisk breeze gathered force into a gale wind, and needles of ice and snow replaced the wide blue skies. Neither smell nor sound interfered with the ambience of this dreamscape of angry white; he could not see any further than three paces ahead. He had no need to rely on memory any more. This was the world that his body occupied in reality, and he only had to relax the walls of his mind before the deadly conditions invaded even his dreams.

The stranger scanned the shifting environment, betraying no unease. A bubble of magic, the colour of a glowing hearth, surrounded him. Fresh grass sprouted beneath his feet, forcing through the melting ice and snow.

Who was this man? A powerful practitioner of either the arcane or incarnate arts, to have infiltrated his dream. Salvic by the manner of his dress, and either determined or foolhardy to have taken the trouble to track him down. Why?

Pushing his spectacles up his nose so that they better hid his eyes, he turned to face the intruder once more. His own voice, parched and hoarse from months of disuse, somehow forced its way through a throat that burned with fever and dehydration.

“I would know why you have sought me out.”

“First I would see you stand. There is someone who needs your help, and I want you on your feet.”

Those inscrutable irises pierced him, penetrated him, daring him to ask why. He needed not. The measure of a person lay not in how long they crawled through snow and blood and dirt, but in whether they could stand again afterwards. This man had expended great expense and effort in finding him. Of course he would want to see it rewarded.

Nanashi, nameless wanderer, rose to his full height. Even in his dreams, cramped muscles spasmed and frozen tendons popped. The accoutrements on his belt, tucked into their pouches of woven silk, slapped against his tattered tunic and the gaunt ribs beneath. His cheeks hollow from malnutrition and exposure, dark circles framing his battered spectacles, this time he forced himself to meet the intruder’s glare.

It hurt.

But not as much as the Necromancer’s blade, or Kayu’s screams.

In response, the other mage brandished the palm of his hand. An intricate arcane glyph smouldered in the weathered flesh.

“That’s a start, but I need to know you’re not as pitiful as you look,” he said. “Memorise this sigil. When you wake up, burn it into the ground. Exactly one meter in diameter. Once done, stand in its center and awaken it with your magic. If all goes well, it will transport you to me. Here, I will be able to adequately test you. You have my word that I will answer your questions afterwards.”

Even now, Nanashi knew that he could refuse. His instincts, even in his dreams, wanted to do just that. What guarantee did he have that the intruder spoke truth? Why would anybody need his help in particular?

But the man had found him once, and possessed the means and obvious will to do so again. Better, then, to play along. He only had one further question.

“Where will this take me?”

The intruder smirked.

“I’m sure even an outlander like you has heard of the Citadel...”

[Shinsou Vaan Osiris]

Salvar: Tirel outskirts
Three weeks prior

Despite Shinsou Vaan Osiris’s strength, each shovelful of Salvar’s thick white snow felt heavier than iron. The muscles in his arms and shoulders ached with a searing pain, and the skin on his hands and cheeks glowed red with the combined toils of the grim labour and the harsh winter climate. When he was finally finished, the Telgradian fell back, panting, next to the icy well of what was to be his Bane’s final resting spot. The powdered snow of the blinding storm covered nearly every inch of his bare flesh, but Shinsou made no effort to move.

He was too tired.

Though the work was finally done, there was no comfort in the hole he had dug for that of his one and only friend on Althanas. Bane, the former ranger and his mentor and friend, had deserved so much better than a burial plot in the frozen wastes north of Salvar, miles from home and so crude in its construction it left very little to ceremony. Shinsou wanted to scream, and cry, and slam his first into the tundra beneath him at the infuriating and desperate unfairness of it all, but nothing came. His voice was too parched with the bitter cold, his tear spouts had long since been torn away from him and the Telgradian was simply unable to exert any more energy to redirect his anger.

Shinsou eventually feebly slid himself down to the floor of the grave, parting his legs out across the freshly disturbed dirt. Sighing, he let his head fall back against the cold wall of the empty hole while he took a moment to reflect on what had just happened. Temperance, though incomplete, was alive. The beast of shadow and bone that had manipulated him into warring against his own people, forcing him to bestow untold death and destruction upon Telgradia had been thought sealed, but somehow it had awoken and found its way here. It had torn through that Jal Shey invasion portal like it was nothing, ripping viciously at the membrane of the gate as if it were rending flesh from bone, before coming face to face with him.

Bane hadn’t a chance. All Shinsou could see loop in his head over and over was the malicious bone-clawed hand of his nemesis pierce sickeningly through the ranger’s chest as if it were made from wet paper, eviscerating his entrails over the clean, pressed Salvar snow. The last look Bane ever gave the Telgradian was one of shock and horror before he witnessed his own beating heart crushed before his fading eyes.

The rest of the memory faded to black. The Telgradian couldn’t focus on any more details. With the cold snow flaking down heavily above him, Shinsou ground his teeth and clenched his fists so tight that his bloodstained fingernails left purple crescents in the skin of his palms at the thought of his friend’s gory death.

Shinsou was determined he would grind Temperance, the Jal Shey and even the Telgradians into the dirt in penance for what they had done. In his eyes, they were all equally culpable, all of them a plague that destroyed everything he held dear, and a virus that needed to be exterminated. In his heart, even if Bane’s wandering spirit forgave him, the Telgradian could not pass that forgiveness onto any of them.

As the storm hit it’s most violent phase, and at the crescendo of his seething rage, he pulled a crude survival sheet over his head with a violent jerk, almost tearing it in half, leaving him alone in the dark in the middle of a six foot deep trench with only Telos Soltair’s words left for him to ponder.

This man trusted you with his life, and you led him to ruin. For that alone I could kill you where you stand. It would be so easy after everything you’ve done, after all the shame you have brought upon our family and our people. Your power is evidently no-where near its previous level. At a place and time of my choosing, you will atone for what you have done. This, though, is not the time, nor the place.


Despite his emotional turmoil, Shinsou could see him vividly now; his father, a member of the Council of Five’s execution squad sent to capture or kill him. He was dressed in those Royal Guard robes, consisting of the traditional black uniform with silver buttons and a flowing white Haori with great, wide sleeves. They were a little frayed at the edges and covered in Bane’s blood as the soft hearted man knelt at Bane’s side and performed last rites. Those usually soft, hazel eyes peered out from underneath a curtain of matted black hair and fell upon Shinsou Vaan Osiris, but they didn’t gaze upon him kindly.

Telos was supposed to end his life. Why did he not kill him? Surely it wasn’t out of some misguided loyalty to his son. The Council of Five’s orders were absolute, and Telos never disobeyed an order. So, why was he still alive?

Did he know the truth?

With that final question burning in his mind, Shinsou’s fatigue finally caught up to him and he fell, finally, into an abyss of fitful sleep next to the wrapped corpse of his only friend.

Present day
The Road to the Citadel

The Telgradian, wrapped in his white greatcoat, awoke to the sound of hooves of horses mixed with the traces and chains, the hollow rumbling of rickety wooden wheels of a wagon, and above it all the thundering crashes as tons of brass, iron and timber bounced on the bumpy mud throughways. Groaning softly, he wiped a sore hand across his eyes, and blinked several times.

Opposite him, Sorian slept soundly through the racket. He was an old man, and his short grey beard had become a frail version of its former years, but despite this the ‘contract broker’ was still a powerful figure in certain circles. Shinsou had first met him several months ago during the purging of Sunwing, the dragon of fire. In exchange for a share of the bounty, he had offered up the frightening and enigmatic Elite Optic as a living weapon to help their collective group of misfits slay the terrible beast that had terrorised the Twilight Mountains. After the battle they had all gone their separate ways, but the Telgradian had made a note of the man’s name. After all, in a world as dangerous as this, it was always useful to have a person like that in a contact book somewhere.

Shinsou looked to Sorian’s left and cast a curious glance over his newly contracted combat partner. Just about seated on, and dwarfing, a wooden lip of the wagon’s interior was the giant chassis of the half tonne, un-dead Elite Optic. If simply being seated opposite Sorian could be considered intimidating, which was often the case for most men, by comparison being sat across a four foot gap with this beast was absolutely terrifying.

Elite Optic’s skeletal structure was bulky, uneven with calcium deposits and almost golden yellow, stained by ten thousand years of wear. Jagged thorns of bone protruded from his knees, elbows and shoulders, as well as the base of his ribs. Where two brightly burning scarlet flames would usually be seen in his eye sockets, though, there was now only murky darkness. Shinsou supposed that Elite Optic was, for now, inactive or in some sort of state of slumber. The immortal beast was an enigma to the Telgradian, but there was no mystery surrounding the beast’s power. He had witnessed for himself Elite Optic’s lethal, blunt-force nature and that was exactly why he had contacted Sorian about his availability in the first place. The old man was only happy to oblige. And, of course, Sorian wanted something in return. As payment for his services, he wanted to test what the Telgradian was capable of, and through his ring of shady contacts the peddler of the dark arts had set something up, something big.

Sorian wanted Shinsou to be as ruthless as the bone golem he employed, and the Telgradian had no doubt that, eventually, the man would want him as a permanent addition to his circus.

It was a problem Shinsou realised he would have to deal with in order to adapt and to survive in this harsh new world, but it caused him emotional and nearly physical anguish whenever he thought about conflicting against what Bane had helped him become. The Telgradian had seen Bane as a father figure, someone who showed an immense amount of compassion but could display an equally tremendous amount of strength. Bane had spent months teaching this balance to Shinsou, to try to make him repentant of his deeds under Temperance and the Jal Shey, and to teach him there was more to life than he ever knew.

But the result was not as intended. Shinsou had been weak at a critical moment, and Bane had paid the ultimate price. That moment of weakness had been witnessed by his father, the very man sent to kill him, and that was bad. If Telos and the Council of Five ever stopped fearing his ‘power’, they would put and end to him instantly.

Shinsou believed it was only the fear of that power, or the illusion of that power, that was keeping him alive.

In some ways, The Telgradian wished he could have been more like his terrifying companion. Cold hearted, hardened, and able to get the job done with maximum efficiency. However, Shinsou knew it was too late for him to revert back to the way he used to be in Telgradia, that heartless instrument of war, and by most accounts he wouldn’t want to. But by having this unfeeling, almost mechanically minded colossus at his side he felt he would be able to tap back into that ruthless streak that made him formidable once again. Once he surpassed his previous limitations, Shinsou would hold everyone to account for the things they had done.

As for Sorian, his needs would have to wait.

Whatever they were...

The Telgradian turned his attentions to the outside through the horseshoe shaped gap in the rear of the cart, where the ivory canvas peeled away. The villagers, slowly stirring to the break of a new day, could be heard pacing around the dirt tracks around the wagon long before they came into sight. Every now and then another bump would send the wagon into recoil, and the resulting bashing of metal and timber would drown out the chattering of neighbours and friends. Then they were in view; the farmers, carpenters, merchants, and their outriders, all of them to travel; the sloping dirt trail ahead to the next village to ply their trades. Mothers held their smallest children and pointed at the men, husbands and fathers, and waved them goodbye, wishing them well for the day ahead.

"We’re approaching the Citadel gates. This is your stop!”

The driver’s voice was shrill and loud as he tried to make himself heard over the horse’s hooves and ambient chattering around him. As Shinsou exited the wagon, He suddenly felt a chill shoot up his spine as the shadow of the looming form of the Citadel swallowed them whole, and with that, the three of them proceeded into the famous stronghold.

The Citadel arena: Council of Five chambers

The funnel wall of the Citadel’s portal snapped and crackled as the electrical substance it was made from bent to the monk’s every whim. Strange, tendril like anomalies morphed and swirled in front of Shinsou’s face as the arena morphed into focus. The Telgradian judged the two foot gap between the lip of the portal and what appeared to be some sort of stone path and stepped down perfectly; Shinsou’s foot pressing, for the first time, onto the cold, hard floor of this monk’s creation.

Shinsou had designed it himself, from memory, and had sent word ahead to the powerful monks of the Citadel to work their magic. With an approving nod, the Telgradian surveyed the wonderful work that had taken place in his absence.

The glistening surface of a white marble path carved an icy garden in two. It was covered with crispy, frost covered leaves, the kind that littered the ground on a bitter winter’s morning, and as his entourage’s footsteps crunched one by one, Shinsou cast his gaze to the approaching, nostalgic council chamber grounds.

Just ahead, that familiar silver gate stood at least three times the height of the ten foot wall on either side of it that encircled the chamber of the Council of Five. It was topped with crystalline spires that glinted like diamonds in the low morning sun. The dome shaped structure was made of some sort of white granite. Finely carved statues adorned the edges of the gate around its massive iron doors. Shinsou had seen the decorations before, although he couldn’t make out any of the statues from memory. Heroically posed warriors, insignias of Telgradia and the Council of Five and assorted coats or arms were some of the more prominent statuary, breathtaking in their beauty and refinement.

As they approached, Shinsou, Sorian and Elite Optic exchanged no dialogue. The Telgradian pressed his hand against the iron door on the right, and after a bit of a struggle it slowly opened on its massive chrome hinges.

The secretive halls of the Council of Five’s chambers were as silent as a crypt, and almost as dark and eerie. In Telgradia, the mausoleum like structure was well guarded and kept away from any official Telgradian military buildings. It was used only to summon the Council of Five, and was so scarcely attended that anyone walking its cold corridors could feel a cold chill down their spine as they peered at the empty walkways. Shinsou suddenly jumped as the heavily reinforced doors slammed behind them, whilst Elite Optic remained stoic and unfazed by anything, his scarlet red eyes fixated on nothing as Sorian looked on. Settled again, Shinsou took a moment to investigate the replica of the building he had been away from for over ten years

Far over their heads, vaults and arches sailed up and converged in a classical array of marble carved embellishments. A row of marble columns rose to the ceiling and created an avenue that extended past the end of the dome chamber in which they stood. At the end of this avenue a white statue of a goddess, shrouded in celestial robes, loomed over the walkway with a single hand held towards the heavens. The floor consisted of a myriad of marble slabs that led to a centre circle underneath the peak of the dome, from which all other passageways through the building were connected. Here, the flooring was laid in such a way that the emblem of the Council of Five was sketched out over the circumference of the room.

“It’s just as I remember.”

Shinsou once again led the way, walking a straight path between the columns with a silent Elite Optic and Sorian in tow. The lay-out of this section of the building was similar to several of the other royal buildings in the complex; high, narrow windows of colourful stained glass, patterned to portray important events in Telgradian lore. They alternated with the pillars, dark with the lack of any background light. Under these, tucked into coves far into either side of the corridor, were strange pedestals that contained small statues of previous council members. Rows of lighted, scented candles flickered on top of tables positioned either side of these figurines.

Shinsou couldn’t help notice that the Council of Five’s inner chambers was as enormous, and as disquieting, as any other part of the main building from the outside. It was then, as he cast his gaze down, he saw a lone figure at the end of the corridor.

“Be on your guard.” Shinsou said to the behemoth next to him. There was no sound of acknowledgement, just a snort of some deep ethereal tone.

It was a man, from the Telgradian’s first glance. He looked about six foot tall, of medium build. His mop of thick brown hair was wavy, almost curly, with clean shaven facial features. He matched Sorian’s description of a man named Elijah Belov, one of the ‘subjects’ of this strange game. However, the other man, one that Sorian only referred to as “Nanashi”, didn’t appear to be around.

“Where’s Nanashi?” Shinsou asked calmly, but assertively. “I’m sure you gentlemen are above the parlour tricks of rogues and assassins, so is he late?”

Shinsou stopped, brushing a thread of chestnut brown hair from his face, his golden eyes steeled onto the crouching form of Elijah ahead of him whilst Elite Optic stood motionless behind him. The Telgradian then smiled, closing his eyes and gesturing in the vicinity of the rafters and the coves.

“…Or is he lurking in the shadows?”

[Christoph]

Bunny approved.

“Any day now, Dawnbringer…” The sorcerer’s whisper rode a puff of frozen vapor. Elijah Belov crouched beside the glyph, painstakingly chalked onto the stone with the help of the monks, that would bring Nanashi to him. Eventually. His grand experiment would be short-lived if the primary subject failed to appear, leaving Elijah to face a dark future without a guiding light.

His opponents’ footsteps echoed across the vast chamber. He sighed. He had pushed his way into the arena the instant the monks let him, but he knew his time was limited. If Nanashi failed to correctly replicate the glyph in time… That’ll be awkward for everyone. He would have brought the outlander hero to him sooner, but the ritual could only work with the Citadel’s immense ambient magic fueling it.

Standing up, he faced his two opponents. Threads of magic, silver and green to his sight, wove themselves into intricate knots in his eyes, awakening his mage sight. The human’s aura burned hot, but nothing unusual or alarming. Eli nodded imperceptibly, turning his enhanced vision to the hulking minion. Its aura was a churning, hungry darkness like the deep ocean.

Undead, he thought, then smirked at himself. What was your first clue, Eli? Couldn’t have been that he’s a twelve-foot tower of bones. A red pulse throbbed within that abyssal aura, a knot of rage. More importantly, of awareness. Not a mere construct, then.

“Hello, hello,” he finally verbally acknowledged the mismatched pair. “My comrade is making an especially long journey, but should be arriving shortly.” He gestured to the chalked glyph, as though it explained everything. “I appreciate your decision to not immediately rush me while I’m by myself. Tactically foolish, but commendable.” He grinned, wide and full of teeth like a shark.

Before his foes could reply, the glyph flared to life. White chalk lines turned blazing orange, fiery light gleaming off the pillars and spawning dancing shadows in the recesses of the grand hall. Flames burst from the floor. They swirled and contorted, taking a man’s shape. Wreathed in a magnificent burning halo, Nanashi the Dawnbringer emerged.

And promptly collapsed.

“You’re making a great first impression.” He reached down and hoisted the haggard new arrival up. “I trust the trip wasn’t too taxing?”

Nanashi groaned a response.

“That answers that, I suppose.” Eli shook his head. “I assumed your appearance in the dream was simply an exaggerated projection of your waking state, but in truth it painted a flattering portrait. How are you still alive?”

“Spite, I guess.”

“I can relate to that.”

Finally steadying himself, Nanashi’s hands went to the pouches at his waist, the glasses on his face, and finally the swords in the small of his back, as though convincing himself that he had arrived in one piece. At last he exhaled, loud and echoing through the high vaults. He peered about the room, settling on their opponents. “What is this place? Who are they?”

“This place is an arena of their design, I believe,” Elijah replied, widely gesturing to the vast chamber. “Reminds me of Saint Denebriel’s Cathedral, and I don’t know if I like that. As for them… if my information is correct, the regular man is Shinsou Vaan Osiris. And outlander like you, and perhaps a former revolutionary in his homeland. A man after my own heart, really.” He spared his foes nary a glance as he talked about them. “Then we have his giant… undead bodyguard, perhaps? Either way, like I said earlier, this is the Citadel, so obviously we’re here to fight them.”

“I know what the Citadel is, but why? You said somebody needed help.” He frowned. Annoyance sparked in his tone, giving it a much-needed edge. He almost sounded like a warrior again. “I fail to see how this frivolity helps anyone.”

At last, Shinsou interrupted. “It seems a grievous misuse of the Citadel’s powers to hold a conference. Perhaps when you gentlemen are ready we can get to the crux of the matter?”

Belov raised a single finger at his foe. “Hush, the adults are speaking. Anyway, Nanashi… I assure you, nothing about this is frivolous. I’ll explain everything after we dispatch these two.”

[Elite Optic]

Ah, the smell of fresh heart pumping blood...I don't miss it like I used to.

That scent, that beautiful scent of living blood, pumping around the body from a healthy strong heart. It was important to him, to know he could still smell his enemy. There were so few things he could sense since he had become an undead, this smell was at least something that he could appreciate. It had created a sort of fascination within him, listening to the beating hearts of humanity, being able to hear the tossing and turning of nerves, or the powerful beats of love.

There was part of him that missed those feelings, those emotions that carried a human to feats of great strength or acts of bitter shame. What did it say about him, that he didn't really care about any of that anymore? Not that he harvested no emotions, but because they no longer effected him on a physical level. He had become a beacon of blissful ignorance, but they only saw him as a behemoth of the undead. A thoughtless minion that lacked the intelligence or thinking capability to be part of the living world. How wrong they were.

Sorian rested his hand against the yellow grit stained leg of Elite Optic, just within the base of Elites vision, as he watched the couple of men assorting themselves to their new predicament. This old man, standing between his legs within the great domed hall, had become important to him. His thirst for vengeance of his friends, for valour of battle, and his search for bigger, greater opportunities to rise against, was all that Elite had strived for when he was human. The eudemonic pleasure that came over Elite Optic when he was reminded of his past was exhilarating. A driving force he rarely felt anymore.

Would he call Sorian a friend? No. Yet this would be the closest to a friend he could possibly have. A true compatriot that held his values. He didn't know how many years Sorian had left in him, but while he was alive, he was worth being around.

For now though, he was not welcome on the marble floor. He wasn't to be involved in this fight, this war of swords and magic. He patted Elite on the leg, like a master awarding his dog a faithful pat on the head then began to walk away, almost dejectedly. He might have been old, but he never wanted to back out of a fight.

Elite glanced at Shinsou, his small fragile looking colleague for this battle. They all looked fragile, they all looked weak, but this world had changed a lot since he was human, and he had already leanred that humanity was now stronger than it appeared.

No more underestimating...

Sorian had quickly vanished, but the scent of old man hung in the air before slowly fading mournfully in valediction.

Elite remained very still, not breaking his posture or their belief that he was nothing more than an unintelligent brute. Yet he watched the two before him; the slim tunic wearing man, he was clearly armed and wearing glasses, he looked the weakest. A fight with him seemed boring and Elite hoped with great desire he would give more than his small frame suggested. Then Elite glanced back over to the first man, the one seemingly enjoying mocking Shinsou over brief discussions, and he couldn't hide the small grin that graced his arrogant face.

Elite reached up and over his shoulder, his slow movement, not reflecting his true intentions. Gripping the hilt of his sword, he lifted it clear of his bone rack chassis, the old skulls of his victims rattling as he did, and then he lowered it to reside beside him. The bizarrely rusty flaking sword began crumbling its flakes on the floor by their feet. They probably hadn't seen anything like this before. The giant two meter long blade was an intimidating sight, and Elites entire visual was unique and certainly dangerous.

Yet, it wasn't clear if the two men really cared about this or not. They would have to soon, because Elite Optic was not known for his irenic qualities.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Dispatch these two?

Behind his spectacles, his eyes glowed with whorls of white flame. The shrouded Citadel chambers spread before him, overlaid with a pulsating kaleidoscope of winds above and leylines below. Ambient arcane power surged like adrenaline at his every whim, its taste that of a tangy Underwood lemon on his tongue. No wonder the stranger’s teleportation glyph had activated with such force.

The aura of the one he now knew as Elijah Belov flared to his right, brighter and more focused than his. The opposing swordsman, who sought ‘the crux of the matter’, seethed in icy shadow. Alongside him, an abyssal maw, roiling with tempestuous hunger. Something throbbed there, almost as if...

Did that undead monstrosity have a soul? Could Nanashi just bend his will to its destruction, as he might have done to one of Xem’zund’s abominations? What in the names of all the kami, Thaynes, Stars, and Ancients had he involved himself in this time?

He shook his head, violently homesick for the Berevarian blizzards he’d left behind. At least there he didn’t have to deal with people.

Dispatch these two?

Of course, this was the Citadel, after all. He’d never fought here before, though he had studied it enough in his copy of Arkakroth’s Cross Continent Travel Journal & People I’d Like to Bludgeon. He had read that within the confines of these mystical walls, the monks of Ai’Brone could resurrect the recently dead. But only in extreme self-defence had Nanashi ever spilled the blood of another, and never before had he ended a mortal life. He would damn himself in the eyes of the only one who mattered, if he dared to use his current circumstances as a callous excuse to start doing so.

“Convince me,” he addressed Elijah at last. “This person that we must aid… does his or her life depend on us?”

“A great many lives may depend on the both of us,” the man replied without hesitation. Ignoring their opponents, he turned his ancient irises to Nanashi and lowered his voice. “Believe me when I say I may have no one else left to turn to.”

“And these gentlemen oppose us?” The outlander peered at the two of them again over the rims of his oversized spectacles. As fighters in the renowned Citadel, they would be unlikely to retreat from words alone.

“They don’t oppose my, our, cause, but they are our opponents here. Accessing the Citadel to summon you involved agreeing to battle against them.” Elijah too glanced back to their opponents. “I expected them to be more eager… but regardless, we only leave when we or they lie defeated.”

Nanashi sighed beneath his breath, recognising the truth in his words. “This is all a bad, bad dream.”

“Wake up quick then, because I still wish to… assess your capabilities.”

The warrior-scholar nodded, one final display of reluctance. Then he stepped forth, two echoing footfalls disguising an esoteric incantation in a foreign tongue. His hands flashed to his sides, palms downwards, clumsily spilling his belongings from his waistpouches. A chaotic clatter of parchment, writing inks, and shaped cardpaper cascaded to the cold marble.

In the midst of the cacophony, he ground out a single word through grit teeth.

“Gurengoku.”

A wall of flame washed through the darkness, dazzling and disorienting, disappearing almost as soon as he had conjured it. He took care to avoid harming the swordsman and his bodyguard, but still the wave of hazy heat bathed them in shimmering mirage. The spell wrought havoc on the column-cast shadows, casting a bright flash into the high vaults and recessed alcoves. The rows of tamed candles that once lit their path now blazed in molten pyres, alight with remnant white fire. A faint aroma of balsam overrode the stench of smouldering beeswax. Backdraft wafted through the limp strands of his hair.

“I know not who you are, or why you are here, but I ask that you step out of our path. I have neither the time nor the patience for bloodshed.”

Sometimes, in his dreams, those words would help him avert conflict. On other occasions, they only served to inflame the situation.

The sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach warned him how it would play out this time.

[Shinsou Vaan Osiris]

Shinsou was a little startled as Nanashi unleashed a molten stream of flame through the main hall. As a wave of hot air washed over him and Elite Optic, the Telgradian raised a palm to his face to act as a shield against the unfavourable temperatures, which although not dangerous were still mightily uncomfortable. After the burning draft subsided, his shimmering gold eyes looked back through the rising heat towards their opponents. Everything in the room was distorted and out of focus, like a poorly taken photograph, and the pungent scent of melting wax coalesced with that of the scent of pine incense. Beneath them, the emblem of the Council of Five glowed in a fiery scarlet hue. It was the only bit of the building constructed from Frach, a crystal native to Telgradia, and the flames had been so hot they had superheated the gemstone tracks forming the crest in the floor. It looked beautiful, but it should have been a warning.

Too slow, kid. If he’d been serious about that attack, you’d be ash. You’re getting sloppy.

The other voices now talking in the Citadel had been drowned out by the solitary voice of one man alone in Shinsou’s mind; a man by the name of Bane Stark. There he was, right at the forefront of his memory again, his visage sporting a year-old black beard with thin sideburns meeting that greying crew cut on top. He was built like a house, with monstrous shoulders that were barely concealed by his coat.

How many of the Council of Five that swore allegiance to that crest below your feet have been outlived by it, I wonder, by taking their opponent for granted? You can’t stand toe to toe with these guys. Where’s your brain, Shinsou? Where are your instincts?

A bevy of thoughts poured into Shinsou’s mind. He tried to shut them down, shaking his head and bringing himself back to reality. Bane was dead. It didn’t matter what he thought, or what he would say or do in this situation. Only he, the Telgradian, could control what happened here. He looked to his right to see the giant skeletal chassis of Elite Optic bearing the weight of a belt of his skulls. As grim as the display was, it was an almost gratifying experience just to see the beast coldly parade round the chain of his victims in such a cool, proud manner.

That’s what he needed to be like at the moment; cold, calculating and ruthless. Here, in the Citadel, he’d take those first steps towards that.

“I know not who you are, or why you are here, but I ask that you step out of our path. I have neither the time nor the patience for bloodshed.” Nanashi’s voice echoed throughout the great dome, pinging off of the walls and reverberating down the smooth marble hallways.

Shinsou didn’t reply. Ahead, the partial silhouettes stood and the hissing of Nanashi’s voice issuing what sounded like a masked ultimatum dissolved into nothing. The Telgradian, with his brown hair covered in a layer of soot and his skin numb from the preceding heat, suddenly noticed a feeling in the pit of his stomach that seemed to ebb and flow, pulsating powerfully one moment before gently caressing his nerves the next. He struggled momentarily, forcing his fingers to release themselves from the balled fist by his side.

Then, in a split second, it came to him. It was a dark, heavy thing Shinsou sensed. He felt that he could almost see a pair of brilliant white eyes staring out at him from underneath Nanashi and Elijah’s skins. The sky, suddenly blackened, was aghast with crimson celestial energies. All of it was chaotic and yet utterly, inconceivably silent. The only sound in those seconds, measurable only by a sixth sense that Shinsou could never truly rid himself of, was the thumping and pounding of destructive Jal Shey magic tearing apart vast tracts of the landscape. Then, the telltale hushed intake and release of breath from one of the beasts themselves.

As Shinsou returned to reality, he suddenly knew what it was he was sensing. It was the overwhelming pressure of the life-force from the Jal Shey around them, tainting the air with dark intent. Yet, these two people weren’t Jal Shey at all.

Something evil was observing their battle from outside the confines of the Citadel.

“Elite,” Shinsou finally whispered to his compatriot after a few moments, “we aren’t alone here. I sense something, a presence in the darkness watching us. We need to make our move. Once I cast this incantation, we’ll have twenty minutes. Pull back and follow me into the corridors behind us.”

Shinsou’s head dipped as he raised Enpera forty five degrees to his shoulders. The room was still like an oven thanks to Nanashi’s pyrotechnical display, and streaks of sweat travelled down his face and chin as he prepared his first move. Enpera’s glimmering blade began to emit a strange purple aura.

“Senkai: Enpera Suigetsu!”

Both of his opponents had seen his sword, and now they would both succumb to his illusions. The Telgradian found himself savouring the familiar sensation of his fingers tingling with the power of his Senkai once again. Flicking strands of brown matted hair out of his face, the Telgradian snapped his head up and smiled slightly as the purple light that had manifested from his sword faded, and was replaced by the ambient light provided by the smouldering candlelight.

Three foot in front of Elijah and Nanashi, ghostly apparitions phased through the floor and seemingly manifested into physical matter before their eyes, screaming as they did so. Nanashi would look up and see the visage of his own partner, Elijah, looking back at him. There was no mistaking his thick, curly brown mop and his clean shaven skin, or even the scent of the man. Everything was identical to the letter. Elijah, on the other hand, stared back at the form of Nanashi. He would look upon that face, one that still boasted a youthful innocence that the world had not quite yet destroyed, and he would gaze into the dark eyes that peered out from those battered half-rim glasses and not know the difference.

With the two mirages now standing in their places, blocking their opponent’s perspective of the two warriors, Shinsou motioned to Elite Optic and pointed at a corridor to their left. It was one of the main arteries of the building that led to a labyrinthine set of magically re-enforced inner walkways that Shinsou knew about from his time in the Telgradian military.

“Down here. Go!” He shouted as he began his sure-footed sprint into the mouth of the corridor, the soles of his shoes slapping the marble floor below like a snare drum.

[Christoph]

Elijah grinned as his comrade unleashed his fiery assault, taking those moments to weave spells of his own. Hot wind swept his woolen cloak, muffling his mumbled arcane formula. His fingers traced through the air, weaving invisible thread that glittered in his enhanced sight. With a tug, he pulled those arcane energies into his body. His muscles tightened with sorcerous vigor and quickness. A metallic sheen washed across his skin, making it hard as steel.

When the Dawnbringer issued his warning, Belov’s grin soured. “Has that ever worked?”

Before anyone could answer, an apparition appeared before him, phasing through the floor. It looked just like Nanashi, even smelled like a man who had spent months starving in the snow.

Eli took a startled step back, but then stopped, his face falling back into a blank, unimpressed mask. Why would their doppelgangers appear out of thin air? Next to him, Nanashi mirrored his reaction. His eyes flicked once to Elijah, then back to their new-formed shadows.

“Ware, Master Belov,” he warned. “These are just--”

“Yeah, illusions.” Elijah’s mage sight flashed again across his vision, revealing the obvious aetheric tapestry of the fakes, like snarled knots in the threads of magic. He tsked. “And mediocre ones at that.” Impressively convincing to mundane sense, but he left that unsaid. Underneath, their fakeness was obvious -- he had met only one illusionist in his travels who could convincingly mimic aetheric patterns.

He ignored the phantoms completely, seeking his foes with his mage sight; their auras now fled toward the main corridor on Eli’s right. He frowned. “It seems our query means to flee.”

“So perhaps they did heed my warning,” Nanashi replied.

Eli laughed then, even as the illusions harmlessly attacked them. It was a deep, genuine laugh bubbling up from his chest. “You’re adorable, Dawnbringer.” He wiped his eyes, stepping right through the phantom version of his ally. He tracked their foes’ movements. “No, I think they want to slip away into the maze of tunnels and use stealth and trickery to even the field, and ultimately delay our escape from this place.”

“Then we must endeavor to stop them.”

Belov’s grin returned. “Aye, we must.” He wove a new spell, calling wind to his feet with a cascading pattern in the threads of magic. Twice, thrice he repeated the pattern until a whirlwind enveloped him, all but pushing him forward. Shinsou and the bone brute had already turned into one of the vast side corridors. “Try and keep up, will you?”

He bolted forward in a great gust. Wind carrying every stride, he cleared a tremendous distance in moments. Still not enough. He turned the corner and leapt twenty feet into the air, spinning within his personal cyclone. His hair swirled in a chaotic storm.

He kicked off a pillar midair, rocketing toward his foes. Enveloped in blue and orange flame, he streaked across the chamber like a falling star. Polished marble rang with his impact. He rolled his landing, appearing on his feet between his foes and their escape, sword drawn.

His grin, now furious, gleamed in his fiery aura. “Hi!” Then, explosions. Blue-orange flames erupted from his fingertips, sending chain bursts of heat and kinetic force at the fleeing pair. The stone floor cracked beneath the assault.

Through the howling, roaring inferno he called out. “It seems a grievous misuse of the Citadel’s powers to play hide and seek!”

[Elite Optic]

Elite almost admired him as he cleared the great distance to leap over their heads. The more Elite learned and discovered about Althanas, the more interesting people he had met. In another place, another time or situation he could admire the powers he observed. Yet here, within these walls he was an opponent, a wall blocking his path. He would never admire a wall, no matter how clever it was. He could only destroy it.

Elite never broke stride, the burning, melting attack before him laying waste to the marble as it approached them with lethal intent. He fired forward strategically as if to hinder their movement, their escape, if that’s how the man wished to see it. However, no burning flame could phase the giant skeleton from his path, who was far from feeling the need to flee.

“What? How was he so fast?!” Exclaimed Shinsou as he halted his run with a inverted bow to avoid a flying ball of flame.
Elite stopped at Shinsous side. "Tell me your morale isn’t broken so easily Shinsou?"
The spreading balls of fire and kinetic energy were now crashing around them. The speed of their attacker was powerfully inhuman, and far beyond that of what his normal human appearance would suggest. He had been silent thus far, but the time for silence was at an end. Elite’s burning eyes stared through the flames before him, the heat haze blurring the general view before them. Yet at twelve foot tall, no amount of hot haze would obscure his sight to the small man who arrogantly impeded his path. He hastily replaced his heavy sword within his bone rack, the mighty rusting blade would remain harmless, for now.

“Get on my back!” Elite almost roared his words, collecting the nearest wooden table with his right hand. “We're going for a ride!”

Shinsou hesitated for a second, but being as bold and trusting in his partner as he could, he nimbly used the protruding bone spikes to climb up, and then clung onto Elites ribcage, hanging rather comfortably clear of the melting marble and flying flames below. Elite lifted and placed the table rather awkwardly on his back. The array of spiked bones from his bone rack stabbing and interlocking with the table legs enough to hold it in place, and then, he marched forward. Veering his movement to the right to grab yet another table, except this time, he gripped with both hands, his bony fingers gripping the smooth wooden surface and steel leg jointly. Holding the table up before him, he focused on his assaulting foe.

Then, he charged forward, meeting the flames head on, the table before him placed well enough to take the initial blows as it literally exploded in his hands. The thick strong wood was tough, but the kinetic fire was stronger. Still, as Elite crashed through fire, unable to feel any burning as the fire balls flew between his bones, singeing for sure, but making no lasting impact without a direct hit, he did enough simply to protect his partner.

Stepping into attacking distance of Belov, with the protective table demolished, Shinsou leapt free, dropping into a forward roll onto the safety of the untouched marble. While Elite tossed the remaining table leg aside, grabbed the more sheltered second table, albeit still fairly damaged, and flung it at Elijah with all of his might. Feeling more eager as he embraced the heat, he continued to draw his sword in one fluid motion, the table still flying through the air towards Elijah, and aimed to follow up with one mighty swing of his beast of a sword.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Weaving the heady warmth of the chamber into a cloak about his person, he spared one last glance towards his illusory self. His cheeks had grown gaunt, his eyes sunken and haunted. Persistent magic had held frostbite and hypothermia at bay, but still his wanderings had taken their toll. Had he ever grown his hair so long and greasy, or let so much grime accumulate on his brow?

Bile rose from the shrivelled depths of his stomach. Murderous impulses seized control. This person, this flaming half-witted cretin who had caused his dearest friend to suffer beneath the attentions of daemon and demi-god alike, deserved nothing less than an overwhelming and final death.

No. Not here. Not now.

He exhaled his frustration in a stream of desiccated halitosis. Unchecked emotion served no greater purpose.

Even if this is nothing but the continuation of a bad dream. There is something now that I must do.

He supposed that he had Elijah Belov to thank now, for chaining him to this reality.

Clearing his mind of cobwebs, he finished weaving the zephyrs into their swirling cocoon. The flaming meteor that was his companion streaked in front of their opponents. Both his duplicate and Elijah’s had drawn blades and moved to cut him off from pursuing their master. Had they made better use of stealth and shadow, such lifelike illusions might have ravaged his fragile sanity. But he knew their true nature, and he knew to ignore them.

Smouldering pine and balsam warred in his nose. Shadows shuddered beneath the flaring light. A maelstrom of silence and thunderous cacophony resonated through his ears. But his mind settled into the calm of an empty room, the tranquillity of a full moon. Words of power slipped past his lips, a typhoon contained in a single breath.

“Reppu-no-kata.”

For a handful of heartbeats, he became the wind.

At the touch of his thoughts, the tempest woven about his limbs carried him to his desired destination: behind the swordsman and his bone golem, hoping to trap them between himself and Elijah. But the skeletal brute chose that exact moment to barrel through Elijah’s flames, the swordsman slung like a sack of freshly-dug potatoes over its back under the protection of a pair of wooden tables. Explosions cracked the marble at their feet, sending splintered shards fizzing through the shadows. The heat alone could have melted flesh from bone. Somehow the bone golem made it through unscathed, dumping his charge onto cooler ground and turning to fling the surviving table at Elijah.

Not on my watch. Now he spoke fire, a flash of fury and ferocity.

“Kaendan!”

The head-sized fireball caught the makeshift projectile mid-flight. The resulting focused explosion cast a million burning splinters right back at the golem and its charge. A quintet of smaller fireballs followed in its wake, aimed at the feet of the opposing swordsman to drive him backwards and away. Splashes of purifying white flame took life among the pyres of wax and incense sticks upturned by the undead monstrosity’s sacrilege. Their light mingled with the Salvic spellslinger’s searing blue-orange, a riot of churning heat.

The undead guardian rose from the smoke and flame, greatsword plunging downwards in a mighty arc. Into this melee Nanashi lunged. A sphere of compressed air blossomed upon his palm, aimed to scythe through and shatter the bone golem’s thighs.

Xem’zund’s worst monstrosities had not fazed him. This one would not, either.