Overcoming Perception / Playing on a Higher Scale

[Jörgen Älvestam]

(open)

A brilliant creation had fallen under the eyes of Vorphalack Seiszer during the years he had already spent in the country of Corone, it was the famous citadel. A building supplying a multitude of magical battlegrounds feeding from the imagination of whoever set foot upon it, sown and held together by the very energy that moved the universe – knowledge - or so he believed. The Citadel's battlegrounds were sources of pure Mind Magic, Illusionary Magic, Mesmer Powers, however one may call it - it was one of Vorphalacks primary purposes in life, the very research of that said power.

The time had once again come to lay himself in its comforting embrace, yet today it was not for the sake of research but far more the entertaining component of it all. Quietly Vorphalack sat within a darkened arena, upon a chair of brand new leather with the warm color of orange-brown. His leather trench coat flowed gently over the round curves of the chair, his fingers tapping alternatively an un-played rhythm on the armrests, his head lowered in a way that shadows enveloped most of his devious face. Opposite of him was another chair of the same fabric, empty. The floor beneath was of black marble, finely polished, glinting here and there within the unusual lighting to which we will now come.

The arena seemed to have no distinct boundaries, more or less they were unseen, and of course there was an idea behind this all – the arena was created to actively feed from one’s mind…what this meant was clear to the mercurial man already situated amid, but would it be of quick, slow, or no knowledge at all to his adversary to come?
Somewhere in random distances around the arena projections flickered greenly in the dimensions of squares, framed and thwarted by steel constructions hovering as well in mid air. These forms of sorts determined vaguely that the arena ground was to originally be seen as a circle. In the dark skies above flashes of a soft green illuminated the venue below. What would certainly throw one or the other contestant off at first, concerning this facet, would be the pure white light illuminating either of the chairs centered on the floor of this area. It threw shadows as if coming from atop, yet in that very direction there was no source whatsoever.

Everything about this arena was completely unnatural; the sparseness of objects that stood within it, the untouched and sterile status of everything within, a light seemingly coming from something as odd as another dimension, and the shapes, constructions, and forms of those never seen in any city, let alone any continent of Althanas. Though one would feel humble with these forms, one would certainly not think to build like this. They seemed like a step future architects of this world may take in centuries to come.

Abruptly the illusionist stopped rapping his fingers unto the armrests and reached into the right pocket of his trench coat, retracting from it a pair of thin leather gloves. With slick movements, dodging the usual trickiness of slipping ones fingers into a glove, Vorphalack slid his hands into their adornment concealing attire. Without further action he rested his arms at the chairs side once more and began anew with the tune he had drummed afore. His long and currently unbound hair lay smoothly upon his shoulders and chest, reacting not to the artificial breeze sweeping across the illusionary arena. It was as quickly as the gust came that it vanished into thin air once more, leaving everything as it was before – so impeccably sterile that it almost seemed dead.

It was up to whomever it may concern that enters this arena, to prepare for a battle surpassing the brute and relentless exchange of swings, thwacks, punches, and stabs or jabs. This bout was to be carried out upon a higher scale…